a 


DAVID  W  BONE 


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in  2007  with  funding  from 

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THE   BRASSBOUNDER 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


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*om. 


HLUE  PETKR 


Krontispiece 


THE  BRASSBOUNDER 


BY 

DAVID   W.   BONE 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    THE    AUTHOR 


NEW   YORK 

E.    P.    DUTTON   &   CO. 
191 1 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 
By  William  Brendon  A  Son,  Ltd. 


Pi 


TO 

JAMES  HAMILTON  MUIR 


Many  of  the  following  chapters  have  appeared  as 
separate  articles  in  the  Glasgow  News.  To  the  Editor 
and  Proprietors  the  writer  is  indebted  not  only  for 
permission  to  republish  them  but  also  for  encourage- 
ment in  their  preparation. 


CONTENTS 


I.  The  'Blue  Peter'  .  >  .  <  •  \  • 

II.  Steersmanship 

III.  The  Way  of  the  Half-deck 

IV.  The  'Dead  Horse' 
V.  'Sea  Price' 

VI.  Rounding  the  Horn 

VII.  A  Hot  Cargo    . 

VIII.  Work! 

IX.  In  'Frisco  Town 

X.  The  Difficulty  with  the  '  Torreador's ' 

XI.  The  'Convalescent' 

XII.  On  the  Sacramento 

XIII.  Homeward! 

XIV.  A  Trick  at  the  Wheel 
XV.  '  'Oly  Joes' 

XVI.  East,  half  South  ! 

XVII.  Adrift 

XVI  n.  " after  Forty  Year  !  * 


i 

22 

33 
46 

56 
67 
80 

97 
107 
118 
127 

137 
146 
198 
168 
178 
185 
193 


viii  CONTENTS 

XIX.    'In  Little  Scotland' '^ 

XX.    Under  the  Flag      ....  2io 

XXI.    'Doldrums'       ....  22Q 

XXII.    On  Sunday         . 

237 

XXIII.  A  Landfall 

XXIV.  Falmouth  for  Orders 2Sg 

XXV.    »T»  Wind'ard!" 2?Q 

XXVI.    Like  a  Man      ....  2gr 

Epilogue:  "1910" 2QI 


list  of  illustrations 


Blub  Peter       .           .           , 

•            •                Frontispiece 

Homeward         .           ,           t 

.            .       facing  page     146 

A  Trick  at  the  Wheel        . 

158 

"OlyJoes!'      ,           .           , 

,,             168 

Adrift    .           ,          ,          , 

.,            185 

THE  BRASSBOUNDER 


THE   'BLUE   PETER' 

DING  .  .  .  dong.  .  .  .  Ding  .  .  .  dong.  The 
university  bells  toll  out  in  strength  of  tone 
that  tells  of  south-west  winds  and  misty  weather. 
On  the  street  below  my  window  familiar  city  noises, 
unheeded  by  day,  strike  tellingly  on  the  ear — hoof- 
strokes  and  rattle  of  wheels,  tramp  of  feet  on  the 
stone  flags,  a  snatch  of  song  from  a  late  reveller, 
then  silence,  broken  in  a  little  by  the  deep  mournful 
note  of  a  steamer's  siren,  wind-borne  through  the 
Kelvin  Valley,  or  the  shrilling  of  an  engine  whistle 
that  marks  a  driver  impatient  at  the  junction  points. 
Sleepless,  I  think  of  my  coming  voyage,  of  the  long 
months — years,  perhaps — that  will  come  and  go 
ere  next  I  lie  awake  hearkening  to  the  night  voices 
of  my  native  city.    My  days  of  holiday — an  all  too 


2  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

brief  spell  of  comfort  and  shore  living — are  over ; 
another  peal  or  more  of  the  familiar  bells  and  my 
emissary  of  the  fates — a  Gorbals  cabman,  belike — 
will  be  at  the  door,  ready  to  set  me  rattling  over 
the  granite  setts  on  the  direct  road  that  leads  by 
Bath  Street,  Finnieston,  and  Cape  Horn — to  San 
Francisco.  A  long  voyage  and  a  hard.  And  where 
next  ?  No  one  seems  to  know  !  Anywhere  where 
wind  blows  and  square-sail  can  carry  a  freight.  At 
the  office  on  Saturday,  the  shipping  clerk  turned 
his  palms  out  at  my  questioning. 

"  Home  again,  perhaps.  The  colonies  !  Up  the 
Sound  or  across  to  Japan,"  he  said,  looking  in  his 
Murray's  Diary  and  then  at  the  clock,  to  see  if 
there  was  time  for  him  to  nip  home  for  his  clubs 
and  catch  the  1.15  for  Kilmacolm. 

Nearly  seventeen  months  of  my  apprenticeship 
remain  to  be  served.  Seventeen  months  of  a  hard 
sea  life,  between  the  masts  of  a  starvation  Scotch 
barque,  in  the  roughest  of  seafaring,  on  the  long 
voyage,  the  stormy  track  leading  westward  round 
the  Horn. 

It  will  be  February  or  March  when  we  get  down 
there.  Not  the  worst  months,  thank  Heaven  !  but 
bad  enough  at  the  best.  And  we'll  be  badly  off  this 
voyage,  for  the  owners  have  taken  two  able  seamen 


THE    'BLUE    PETER'  3 

off  our  complement.  "  Hard  times  !  "  they  will 
be  saying.  Aye  !  hard  times — for  us,  who  will  now 
have  to  share  two  men's  weight  in  working  our 
heavily  sparred  barque. 

Two  new  apprentices  have  joined.  Poor  little 
devils  !  they  don't  know  what  it  is.  It  seemed  all 
very  fine  to  that  wee  chap  from  Inverary  who 
came  with  his  father  to  see  the  ship  before  he  joined. 
How  the  eyes  of  him  glinted  as  he  looked  about, 
proud  of  his  brass-bound  clothes  and  badge  cap. 
And  the  Mate,  all  smiles,  showing  them  over  the 
ship  and  telling  the  old  Hielan'  clergyman  what  a 
fine  vessel  she  was,  and  what  an  interest  he  took 
in  boys,  and  what  fine  times  they  had  on  board 
ship,  and  all  that !  Ah  yes — fine  times  !  It's  as 
well  the  old  chap  doesn't  know  what  he  is  sending 
his  son  to  !  How  can  he  ?  We  know — but  we 
don't  tell.  .  .  .  Pride  !  Rotten  pride  !  We  come 
home  from  our  first  voyage  sick  of  it  all.  .  .  . 
Would  give  up  but  for  pride.  .  .  .  Afraid  to  be 
called  '  stuck  sailors  '  ...  of  the  sneers  of  our 
old  schoolmates.  ...  So  we  come  home  in  a  great 
show  of  bravery  and  swagger  about  in  our  brass- 
bound  uniform  and  lie  finely  about  the  fine  times 
we  had  .  .  .  out  there  !  .  .  .  And  then  nothing 
will  do  but  Jimmy,  next  door,  must  be  off  to  the 


4  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

sea  too — to  come  back  and  play  the  same  game  on 
young  Alick  !    That's  the  way  of  it !  .  .  . 

Then  when  the  Mate  and  them  came  to  the  half- 
deck,  it  was :  "Oh  yes,  Sir  !  This  is  the  boys' 
quarters.  Well !  Not  always  like  that,  Sir — when 
we  get  away  to  sea,  you  know,  and  get  things  ship- 
shape. Oh,  well  no  !  There's  not  much  room 
aboard  ship,  you  see.  This  is  one  of  our  boys — 
Mister  Jones."  (Jones,  looking  like  a  miller's  man 
— he  had  been  stowing  ship's  biscuits  in  the  tanks — 
grinned  foolishly  at  the  Mate's  introduction : 
'  Mister  ! ')  "  We're  very  busy  just  now,  getting 
ready  for  sea.  Everything's  in  a  mess,  as  you  see, 
Sir.  Only  joined,  myself,  last  week.  But,  oh  yes  ! 
It  will  be  all  right  when  we  get  to  sea — when  we 
get  things  shipshape  and  settled  down,  Sir  !  " 

Oh  yes  !  Everything  will  be  all  right  then,  eh  ? 
Especially  when  we  get  down  off  the  Horn,  and  the 
dingy  half-deck  will  be  awash  most  of  the  time 
with  icy  water.  The  owners  would  do  nothing  to 
it  this  trip,  in  spite  of  our  complaints.  They  sent 
a  young  man  down  from  the  office  last  week  who 
poked  at  the  covering  boards  with  his  umbrella 
and  wanted  to  know  what  we  were  growling  at. 
Wish  we  had  him  out  there — off  Diego  Ramirez. 
Give  him  something  to  growl  at  with  the  ship 


THE    'BLUE    PETER*  5 

working,  and  green  seas  on  deck,  and  the  water 
lashing  about  the  floor  of  the  house,  washing  out 
the  lower  bunks,  bed  and  bedding,  and  soaking 
every  stitch  of  the  clothing  that  we  had  fondly 
hoped  would  keep  us  moderately  dry  in  the  next 
bitter  night  watch.  And  when  (as  we  try  with 
trembling,  benumbed  fingers  to  buckle  on  the 
sodden  clothes)  the  ill-hinged  door  swings  to,  and 
a  rush  of  water  and  a  blast  of  icy  wind  chills  us  to 
the  marrow,  it  needs  but  a  hoarse,  raucous  shout 
from  without  to  crown  the  summit  of  misery. 
"  Out  there,  the  watch  !  Turn  out !  "  in  tone  that 
admits  of  no  protest.  "  Turn  out,  damn  ye,  an' 
stand-by  t'  wear  ship  !  " 

(A  blast  of  wind  and  rain  rattles  on  my  window- 
pane.  Ugh !  I  turn  the  more  cosily  amid  my 
blankets.) 

Oh  yes  !  He  would  have  something  to  growl  at, 
that  young  man  who  asked  if  the  '  Skipp-ah '  was 
aboard,  and  said  he  "  was  deshed  if  he  could  see 
what  we  hed  to  complain  of." 

He  would  learn,  painfully,  that  a  ship,  snugly 
moored  in  the  south-east  corner  of  the  Queen's 
Dock  (stern-on  to  a  telephone  call-box),  and  the 
same  craft,  labouring  in  the  teeth  of  a  Cape  Horn 
gale,  present  some  points  of  difference ;    that  it  is 


6  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

a  far  cry  from  580  South  to  the  Clyde  Repair  Works, 
and  that  the  business  of  shipping  is  not  entirely  a 
matter  of  ledgers. 

Oh  well !  Just  have  to  stick  it,  though.  After 
all,  it  won't  always  be  hard  times.  Think  of  the 
long,  sunny  days  drowsing  along  down  the  '  Trades,' 
of  the  fine  times  out  there  in  'Frisco,  of  joys  of 
strenuous  action  greater  than  the  shipping  clerk 
will  ever  know,  even  if  he  should  manage  to  hole 
out  in  three.  Seventeen  months  !  It  will  soon 
pass,  and  I'll  be  a  free  man  when  I  get  back  to 
Glasgow  again.  Seventeen  months,  and  then- 
then 

Ding  .  .  .  dong.  .  .  .  Ding  .  .  .  dong.  .  .  .  Ding 
dong.  .  .  . 

Quarter  to  !  With  a  sigh  for  the  comfort  of  a  life 
ashore,  I  rise  and  dress.  Through  the  window  I  see 
the  Square,  shrouded  in  mist,  the  nearer  leafless 
shrubs  swaying  in  the  chill  wind,  pavement  glisten- 
ing in  the  flickering  light  of  street  lamps.  A  dismal 
morning  to  be  setting  off  to  the  sea !  Portent  of 
head  winds  and  foul  weather  that  we  may  meet  in 
Channel  before  the  last  of  Glasgow's  grime  and 
smoke- wrack  is  blown  from  the  rigging. 

A  stir  in  the  next  room  marks  another  rising. 
Kindly  old  '  Ding  .  .  .  dong  '  has  called  a  favour- 


THE    'BLUE    PETER*  7 

ite  brother  from  his  rest  to  give  me  convoy  to  the 
harbour. 

Ready  for  the  road,  he  comes  to  my  room. 
Sleepy-eyed,  yawning.  "  Four  o'clock  !  Ugh  ! 
Who  ever  heard  of  a  man  going  to  sea  at  four  in 
the  morning  !    Ought  to  be  a  bright  summer's  day, 

and  the  sun  shining  and  flags  flying  an' "     A 

choked  laugh. 

"  Glad  I'm  not  a  sailorman  to  be  going  out  on  a 
morning  like  this  !  Sure  you've  remembered  every- 
thing ?  Your  cab  should  be  here  now.  Just  gone 
four.    Heard  the  bells  as  I  was  dressing " 

Rattle  of  wheels  on  the  granite  setts — sharp, 
metallic  ring  of  shod  heels — a  moment  of  looking 
for  a  number — a  ring  of  the  door-bell. 

"  Perty  that's  tae  gang  doon  tae  th'  Queen's 
Dock  wi'  luggage.  ...  A'  richt,  Mister  !  Ah  can 
cairry  them  ma'sel'.  .  .  .  Aye  !  Weel !  Noo  that 
ye  menshun  it,  Sur  .  .  .  oon  a  mornin'  like  this. 
.  .  .  Ma  respeks,  gents  !  " 

There  are  no  good-byes  :  the  last  has  been  said 
the  night  before.  There  could  be  no  enthusiasm  at 
four  on  a  raw  November's  morning ;  it  is  best  that 
I  slip  out  quietly  and  take  my  seat,  with  a  last  look 
at  the  quiet  street,  the  darkened  windows,  the 
quaint,  familiar  belfry  of  St.  Jude's. 


8  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  A'  richt,  Sur.  G'up,  mere  !  Haud  up,  mere, 
ye!" 

At  a  corner  of  the  Square  the  night  policeman, 
yawning  whole-heartedly,  peers  into  the  cab  to  see 
who  goes.  There  is  nothing  to  investigate  ;  the 
sea-chest,  sailor-bag,  and  bedding,  piled  awkwardly 
on  the  '  dickey,'  tell  all  he  wants  to  know. 

"  A  sailor  for  aff  !  " 

Jingling  his  keys,  he  thinks  maybe  of  the  many 

'  braw  laads  '  from    Lochinver   who  go  the  same 

hard  road. 

.  •  t  •  k  • 

Down  the  deserted  wind-swept  streets  we  drive 
steadily  on,  till  house  lights  glinting  behind  the 
blinds  and  hurrying  figures  of  a  '  night-shift '  show 
that  we  are  near  the  river  and  the  docks.  A  turn 
along  the  waterside,  the  dim  outlines  of  the  ships 
and  tracery  of  mast  and  spar  looming  large  and 
fantastic  in  the  darkness,  and  the  driver,  question- 
ing, brings  up  at  a  dim-lit  shed,  bare  of  goods  and 
cargo — the  berth  of  a  full-laden  outward-bounder. 

My  barque — the  Florence,  of  Glasgow — lies  in  a 
corner  of  the  dock,  ready  for  sea.  Tugs  are  churn- 
ing the  muddy  water  alongside,  getting  into  position 
to  drag  her  from  the  quay  wall ;  the  lurid  side-light 
gleams  on  a  small  knot  of  well-wishers  gathered  at 


THE    'BLUE    PETER*  9 

the  forward  gangway  exchanging  parting  words 
with  the  local  seamen  of  our  crew.  I  have  cut  my 
time  but  short. 

"  Come  on  there,  you  !  "  is  my  greeting  from  the 
harassed  Chief  Mate.  "  Are  you  turned  a  —  pas- 
senger, with  your  gloves  and  overcoat  ?  You  sh'd 
have  been  here  an  hour  ago  !  Get  a  move  on  ye, 
now,  and  bear  a  hand  with  these  warps.  .  .  .  Gad  ! 
A  drunken  crew  an'  skulkin'  'prentices,  an'  th'  Old 
Man  growlin'  like  a  bear  with  a  sore " 

Grumbling  loudly,  he  goes  forward,  leaving  me 
the  minute  for  '  good-bye,'  the  late  '  remembers,' 
the  last  long  hand-grip. 

Into  the  half  -  deck,  to  change  hurriedly  into 
working  clothes.  Time  enough  to  note  the  guttering 
lamp,  evil  smell,  the  dismal  aspect  of  my  home 
afloat — then,  on  deck  again,  to  haul,  viciously 
despondent,  at  the  cast-off  mooring  ropes. 

Forward  the  crew — drunk  to  a  man — are  giving 
the  Chief  Mate  trouble,  and  it  is  only  when  the 
gangway  is  hauled  ashore  that  anything  can  be 
done.  The  cook,  lying  as  he  fell  over  his  sailor 
bag,  sings,  "  't  wis  ye'r  vice,  ma  gen-tul  Merry  !  " 
in  as  many  keys  as  there  are  points  in  the  compass, 
drunkenly  indifferent  to  the  farewells  of  a  sad- 
faced  woman,   standing  on   the  quayside  with  a 


io  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

baby  in  her  amis.  Riot  and  disorder  is  the  way  of 
things;  the  Mates,  out  of  temper  with  the  muddlers 
at  the  ropes,  are  swearing,  pushing,  coaxing — to 
some  attempt  at  getting  the  ship  unmoored.  Double 
work  for  the  sober  ones,  and  for  thanks — a  mut- 
tered curse.  Small  wonder  that  men  go  drunk  to 
the  sea  :   the  wonder  is  that  any  go  sober  ! 

At  starting  there  is  a  delay.  Some  of  the  men 
have  slipped  ashore  for  a  last  pull  at  a  neigh- 
bourly 'hauf-mutchkin,'  and  at  a  muster  four  are 
missing.  For  a  time  we  hold  on  at  single  moor- 
ings, the  stern  tug  blowing  a  '  hurry-up '  blast 
on  her  siren,  the  Captain  and  a  River  Pilot  stamp- 
ing on  the  poop,  angrily  impatient.  One  rejoins, 
drunken  and  defiant,  but  of  the  others  there  is  no 
sign.    We  can  wait  no  longer. 

"  Let  go,  aft !  "  shouts  the  Captain.  "  Let  go, 
an'  haul  in.  Damn  them  for  worthless  sodjers, 
anyway  !  Mister  " — to  a  waiting  Board  of  Trade 
official — "  send  them  t'  Greenock,  if  ye  can  run 
them  in.  If  not,  telephone  down  that  we're  three 
A.B.'s  short.  .  .  .  Lie  up  t'  th'  norr'ard,  stern  tug, 
there.  Hard  a-port,  Mister  ?  All  right !  Let  go 
all,  forr'ard  1 "  .  .  .  We  swing  into  the  dock 
passage,  from  whence  the  figures  of  our  friends 
on  the  misty  quayside  are  faintly  visible.     The 


THE    'BLUE    PETER'  n 

little  crowd  raises  a  weakly  cheer,  and  one  bold 
spirit  (with  his  guid-brither's  '  hauf-pey  note  '  in 
his  pocket)  shouts  a  bar  or  two  of  "  Wull  ye  no* 
come  back  again  !  "  A  few  muttered  farewells, 
and  the  shore  folk  hurry  down  between  the  wagons 
to  exchange  a  last  parting  word  at  the  Kelvin- 
haugh.  ' .  .  .  Dong  .  .  .  ding  .  .  .  DONG  .  .  . 
DONG.  .  .  .'  Set  to  a  fanfare  of  steam  whistles, 
Old  Brazen  Tongue  of  Gilmorehill  tolls  us  benison 
as  we  steer  between  the  pierheads.  Six  sonorous 
strokes,  loud  above  the  shrilling  of  workshop 
signals  and  the  nearer  merry  jangle  of  the  engine- 
house  chimes. 

Workmen,  hurrying  to  their  jobs,  curse  us  for 
robbing  them  of  a  '  quarter,'  the  swing  -  bridge 
being  open  to  let  us  through.  "  Come  oon  !  Hurry 
up  wi'  that  auld  '  jeely-dish,'  an'  see's  a  chance  tae 
get  tae  wur  wark,"  they  shout  in  a  chorus  of  just 
irritation.    A  facetious  member  of  our  crew  shouts  : 

"  Wot — oh,  old  stiy-at-'omes.  Cahmin'  aat  t' 
get  wandered  ?  " — and  a  dockman  answers  : 

"  Hello,  Jake,  'i  ye  therr  ?  Man,  th'  sailormen 
maun  a'  be  deid  when  th'  Mate  gied  you  a  sicht ! 
Jist  you  wait  tae  he  catches  ye  fanklin'  th'  cro'- 
jeck  sheets !  " 

We   swing   slowly  between   the   pierheads,   and 


12  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  workmen,  humoured  by  the  dockman's  jest, 
give  us  a  hoarse  cheer  as  they  scurry  across  the 
still  moving  bridge.  In  time-honoured  fashion  our 
Cockney  humorist  calls  for,  'Three  cheers  f'r 
ol'  Pier-'ead,  boys,"  and  such  of  the  '  boys '  as 
are  able  chant  a  feeble  echo  to  his  shout.  The  tugs 
straighten  us  up  in  the  river,  and  we  breast  the 
flood  cautiously,  for  the  mist  has  not  yet  cleared 
and  the  coasting  skippers  are  taking  risks  to  get 
to  their  berths  before  the  stevedores  have  picked 
their  men.  In  the  shipyards  workmen  are  beginning 
their  day's  toil,  the  lowe  of  their  flares  light  up 
the  gaunt  structures  of  ships  to  be.  Sharp  at  the 
last  wailing  note  of  the  whistle,  the  din  of  strenu- 
ous work  begins,  and  we  are  fittingly  drummed 
down  the  reaches  to  a  merry  tune  of  clanging 
hammers  —  the  shipyard  chorus  "Let  Glasgow 
flourish !  " 

Dawn  finds  us  off  Bowling,  and  as  the  fog  clears 
gives  us  misty  views  of  the  Kilpatrick  Hills.  Ahead, 
Dumbarton  Rock  looms  up,  gaunt  and  misty, 
sentinel  o'er  the  lesser  heights.  South,  the  Renfrew 
shore  stretches  broadly  out  under  the  brightening 
sky — the  wooded  Elderslie  slopes  and  distant 
hills,  and,  nearer,  the  shoal  ground  behind  the  lang 
Dyke    where    screaming    gulls    circle    and    wheel. 


THE    'BLUE    PETER'  13 

The  setting  out  is  none  so  ill  now,  with  God's  good 
daylight  broad  over  all,  and  the  flags  flying — the 
'  Blue  Peter  '  fluttering  its  message  at  the  fore. 

On  the  poop,  the  Captain  (the  '  Old  Man,'  be  he 
twenty-one  or  fifty)  paces  to  and  fro — a  short 
sailor  walk,  with  a  pause  now  and  then  to  mark 
the  steering  or  pass  a  word  with  the  River  Pilot. 
Of  medium  height,  though  broad  to  the  point  of 
ungainliness,  Old  Jock  Leish  (in  his  ill-fitting 
broadcloth  shore-clothes)  might  have  passed  for 
a  prosperous  farmer,  but  it  needed  only  a  glance 
at  the  keen  grey  eyes  peering  from  beneath  bushy 
eyebrows,  the  determined  set  of  a  square  lower 
jaw,  to  note  a  man  of  action,  accustomed  to  com- 
mand. A  quick,  alert  turn  of  the  head,  the  lift  of 
shoulders  as  he  walked — arms  swinging  in  seaman- 
like balance — and  the  trick  of  pausing  at  a  wind- 
ward turn  to  glance  at  the  weather  sky,  marked 
the  sailing  shipmaster — the  man  to  whom  thought 
and  action  must  be  as  one. 

Pausing  at  the  binnacle  to  note  the  direction  of 
the  wind,  he  gives  an  exclamation  of  disgust. 

"  A  '  dead  muzzier,'  Pilot.  No  sign  o'  a  slant  in 
the  trend  o'  th'  upper  clouds.  Sou'west,  outside,  I'm 
afraid.  .  .  .  Mebbe  it's  just  as  weel;  we'll  have 
t'  bring  up  at  th'  Tail  o'  th'  Bank,  anyway,  for 


14  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

these  three  hands,  damn  them.  .  .  .  An'  th* 
rest  are  useless.  .  .  .  Drunk  t'  a  man,  th'  Mate 
says.  God !  They'd  better  sober  up  soon,  or 
we'll  have  to  try  '  Yankee  music '  t'  get  things 
shipshape  !  " 

The  Pilot  laughed.  "I  thought  the  'Yankee 
touch  '  was  done  with  at  sea  now,"  he  said.  "  Mer- 
chant Shippin'  Act,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  Cap- 
tain ?  " 

"  Goad,  no  !  It's  no  bye  wi'  yet,  an'  never  will 
be  as  long  as  work  has  to  be  done  at  sea.  I  never 
was  much  taken  with  it  myself,  but,  damn  it, 
ye've  got  to  sail  the  ship,  and  ye  can't  do  it  without 
hands.  Oh,  a  little  of  it  at  the  setting  off  does  no 
harm — they  forget  all  about  it  before  long  ;  but 
at  the  end  of  a  voyage,  when  ye're  getting  near 
port,  it's  not  very  wise.  No,  not  very  wise — an' 
besides,  you  don't  need  it !  " 

The  Pilot  grins  again,  thinking  maybe  of  his  own 
experiences,  before  he  '  swallowed  part  of  the 
anchor,'  and  Old  Jock  returns  to  his  walk. 

Overhead  the  masts  and  spars  are  black  with 
the  grime  of  a  '  voyage '  in  Glasgow  Harbour, 
and  '  Irish  pennants '  fluttering  wildly  on  spar 
and  rigging  tell  of  the  scamped  work  of  those 
whose  names  are  not  on  our  '  Articles.'     Sternly 


THE    'BLUE    PETER'  15 

superintended  (now  that  the  Mate  has  given  up  all 
hope  of  getting  work  out  of  the  men),  we  elder 
boys  are  held  aloft,  reeving  running  gear  through 
the  leads  in  the  maintop.  On  the  deck  below  the 
new  apprentices  gaze  in  open-mouthed  admira- 
tion at  our  deeds  :  they  wonder  why  the  Mate 
should  think  such  clever  fellows  laggard,  why  he 
should  curse  us  for  clumsy  '  sodgers,'  as  a  long 
length  of  rope  goes  (wrongly  led)  through  the  top. 
In  a  few  months  more  they  themselves  will  be 
criticising  the  'hoodlums,'  and  discussing  the 
wisdom  of  the  '  Old  Man  '  in  standing  so  far  to 
the  south'ard. 

Fog  comes  dense  on  us  at  Port  Glasgow,  and 
incoming  steamers,  looming  large  on  the  narrowed 
horizon,  steer  sharply  to  the  south  to  give  us 
water.  Enveloped  in  the  driving  wraiths  we  hear 
the  deep  notes  of  moving  vessels,  the  clatter  t)f 
bells  on  ships  at  anchor,  and  farther  down,  loud 
over  all,  the  siren  at  the  Cloch,  bellowing  a  warning 
of  thick  weather  beyond  the  Point.  Sheering 
cautiously  out  of  the  fairway,  we  come  to  anchor  at 
Tail  of  the  Bank  to  wait  for  our  '  pier-head  jumps.' 

At  four  in  the  afternoon,  a  launch  comes  off 
with  our  recruits  and  our  whipper-in  explains  his 
apparent  delay. 


16  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Hilt  nor  hair  o'  th'  men  that  left  ye  hae  I  seen. 
I  thocht  I'd  fin'  them  at  '  Dirty  Dick's '  when  th' 
pubs  opened  .  .  .  but  no,  no'  a  sign :  an'  a  wheen 
tailor  buddies  wha  cashed  their  advance  notes 
huntin'  high  an'  low  !  I  seen  yin  o'  them  ower  by 
M'Lean  Street  wi'  a  nicht  polis  wi  'm  t'  see  he 
didna  get  a  heid  pit  on  'm  ! — 'sss  /  A  pant !  So 
I  cam'  doon  here,  an'  I  hiv  been  lookin'  for  sailor- 
men  sin'  ten  o'clock.  Man,  they'll  no'  gang  in 
thae  wind-jammers,  wi'  sae  mony  new  steamers 
speirin'  hauns,  an'  new  boats  giein'  twa  ten  fur 
th'  run  tae  London.  .  .  .  Thir's  th'  only  yins  I 
can  get,  an'  ye  wadna  get  them,  but  that  twa's 
feart  o'  th'  polis  an'  Jorgensen  wants  t'  see  th' 
month's  advance  o'  th'  lang  yin  !  " 

The  Captain  eyes  the  men  and  demands  of  one  : 

"  Been  to  sea  before  ?  " 

"  Nach  robh  mhi  ?  Twa  years  I  wass  a  '  bow 
rope  '  in  the  I-on-a,  an'  I  wass  a  wheelhouse  in  the 
Allan  Line." 

A  glance  at  his  discharges  confirms  his  claim, 
slight  as  it  is,  to  seamanship,  and  Duncan  M'Innes, 
of  Sleat,  in  Skye,  after  being  cautioned  as  to  his 
obligations,  signs  his  name  and  goes  forward. 

Patrick  Laughlin  has  considerable  difficulty  in 
explaining  his  absence  from  the  sea  for  two  years, 


THE    'BLUE    PETER'  17 

but  the  Captain,  after  listening  to  a  long,  rambling 
statement  .  .  .  "  i'  th'  yairds  .  .  .  riggin'  planks 
fur  th'  rivitter  boys.  .  .  .  Guid-brither  a  gaffer  in 
Hamilton's,  at  the  '  Poort '  .  .  .  shoart  time  " 
.  .  .  gives  a  quick  glance  at  the  alleged  seaman's 
cropped  head  and  winks  solemnly  at  the  Shipping- 
master,  who  is  signing  the  men  on.  Hands  being 
so  scarce,  however,  Patrick  is  allowed  to  touch 
the  pen. 

One  glance  at  the  third  suffices.  Blue  eyes  and 
light  colourless  hair,  high  cheek-bones  and  lithe 
limbs,  mark  the  Scandinavian.  Strong,  wiry  fingers 
and  an  indescribable  something  proclaim  the  sailor, 
and  though  Von  Shmit  can  hardly  say  '  yes  '  in 
English,  he  looks  the  most  likely  man  of  the  three. 

The  Shipping-master,  having  concluded  his  busi- 
ness, steps  aboard  his  launch,  leaving  us  with  a 
full  crew,  to  wait  the  weather  clearing,  and  the 
fair  wind  that  would  lift  us  down  Channel. 

•  •*••• 

Daybreak  next  morning  shows  promise  of  better 
weather,  and  a  light  S.S.E.  wind  with  a  compara- 
tively clear  sky  decides  the  Old  Man  to  take  the 
North  Channel  for  it.  As  soon  as  there  is  light 
enough  to  mark  their  colours,  a  string  of  flags 
brings  off  our  tug-boat  from  Princes  Pier,  and  we 
c 


18  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

start  to  heave  up  the  anchor.  A  stout  coloured  man 
sets  up  a  '  chantey  '  in  a  very  creditable  baritone, 
and  the  crew,  sobered  now  by  the  snell  morning 
air,  give  sheet  to  the  chorus. 

'  Blow,  boys,  blow, — for  Califor-ny,  oh  I 
For  there's  lot's  of  gold,  so  I've  been  told, 
On  the  banks — of  Sa-cramen-to ! ' 

The  towing-hawser  is  passed  aboard,  and  the  tug 
takes  the  weight  off  the  cable.  The  nigger  having 
reeled  off  all  he  knows  of  '  Calif orny,'  a  Dutchman 
sings  lustily  of  '  Sally  Brown.'  Soon  the  Mate 
reports,  "  Anchor's  short,  Sir,"  and  gets  the  order 
to  weigh.  A  few  more  powerful  heaves  with  the 
seaman-like  poise  between  each — "  Spent  my  mo-ney 
on  Sa-lley  Brown  I  " — and  the  shout  comes,  "  An- 
chor's a- weigh !  " 

Down  comes  the  Blue  Peter  from  the  fore,  whip- 
ping at  shroud  and  backstay  in  quick  descent — our 
barque  rides  ground-free,  the  voyage  begun  ! 

The  light  is  broad  over  all  now,  and  the  Highland 
hills  loom  dark  and  misty  to  the  norr'ard.  With  a 
catch  at  the  heart,  we  pass  the  well-known  places, 
slowly  making  way,  as  if  the  flood-tide  were  striving 
still  to  hold  us  in  our  native  waters.  A  Customs 
boat  hails,  and  asks  of  us,  "  Whither  bound  ?  " 
"'Frisco  away  I"  we  shout,  and  they  wave  us  a 


THE    'BLUE    PETER*  19 

brief  God-speed.  Rounding  the  Cloch,  we  meet  the 
coasting  steamers  scurrying  up  the  Firth. 

"  'Ow'd  ye  like  t'  be  a  stiy-at-'ome,  splashin' 
abaht  in  ten  fathoms,  like  them  blokes,  eh  ?  "  the 
Cockney  asks  me,  with  a  deep-water  man's  contempt 
in  his  tone. 

How  indeed  ?  Yearning  eyes  follow  their  glisten- 
ing stern-wash  as  they  speed  past,  hot-foot  for  the 
river  berths. 

Tide  has  made  now.  A  short  period  of  slack 
water,  and  the  ebb  bears  us  seaward,  past  the 
Cowal  shore,  glinting  in  the  wintry  sunlight,  the 
blue  smoke  in  Dunoon  valley  curling  upward  to 
Kilbride  Hill,  past  Skelmorlie  Buoy  (tolling  a  doie- 
ful  benediction),  past  Rothesay  Bay,  with  the  misty 
Kyles  beyond.  The  Garroch  Head,  with  a  cluster 
of  Clyde  Trust  Hoppers,  glides  abaft  the  beam,  and 
the  blue  Cock  o'  Arran  shows  up  across  the  opening 
water.  All  is  haste  and  bustle.  Aloft,  spider-like 
figures,  black  against  the  tracery  of  the  rigging, 
cast  down  sheets  and  clew  lines  in  the  one  place 
where  they  must  go.  Shouts  and  hails — "  Fore 
cross-trees,  there !  Royal  buntline  inside  th' 
crin'line,  m-side,  damn  ye  1 f| 

"  Aye,  aye  !    Stan'  fr'  under  !  " 

.  .  .  rrup !     A   coil   of   rope    hurtling    from    a 


20  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

height  comes  rattling  to  the  rail,  to  be  secured  to 
its  own  particular  belaying-pin.  Out  of  a  seeming 
chaos  comes  order.  Every  rope  has  its  name  and 
its  place  and  its  purpose ;  and  though  we  have 
'  sodjers  '  among  us,  before  Arran  is  astern  we  are 
ready  to  take  to  the  wind.  Off  Pladda  we  set  stay- 
sails and  steer  to  the  westward,  and,  when  the  wind 
allows,  hoist  topsails  and  crowd  the  canvas  on  her. 
The  short  November  day  has  run  its  course  when 
we  cast  off  the  tow-rope.  As  we  pass  the  standing 
tug,  all  her  hands  are  hauling  the  hawser  aboard. 
Soon  she  comes  tearing  in  our  wake  to  take  our  last 
letters  ashore  and  to  receive  the  Captain's  '  blessing.' 
A  heaving-line  is  thrown  aboard,  and  into  a  small 
oilskin  bag  are  put  our  hastily  written  messages  and 
the  Captain's  material  '  blessing.'  Shades  of  Ro- 
mance !  Our  last  link  with  civilisation  severed  by 
a  bottle  of  Hennessy's  Three  Star  ! 

The  tugmen  (after  satisfying  themselves  as  to 
the  contents  of  the  bag)  give  us  a  cheer  and  a  few 
parting  '  skreichs '  on  their  siren  and,  turning 
quickly,  make  off  to  a  Norwegian  barque,  lying-to, 
off  Ailsa  Craig. 

All  hands,  under  the  Mates,  are  hard  driven, 
sweating  on  sheet  and  halyard  to  make  the  most  of 
the  light  breeze.    At  the  wheel  I  have  little  to  do  ; 


THE    'BLUE    PETER'  21 

she  is  steering  easily,  asking  no  more  than  a  spoke 
or  two,  when  the  Atlantic  swell,  running  under, 
lifts  her  to  the  wind.  Ahead  of  us  a  few  trawlers 
are  standing  out  to  the  Skerryvore  Banks.  Broad 
to  the  North,  the  rugged,  mist-capped  Mull  of  Can- 
tyre  looms  up  across  the  heaving  water.  The  breeze 
is  steady,  but  a  falling  barometer  tells  of  wind  or 
mist  ere  morning. 

Darkness  falls,  and  coast  lights  show  up  in  all 
airts.  Forward,  all  hands  are  putting  a  last  drag 
on  the  topsail  halyards,  and  the  voice  of  the  nigger 
tells  of  the  fortunes  of — 

t  Renzo — boys,  Renzo  / ' 


II 

STEERSMANSHIP 

A  \  7EE  LAUGHLIN,  dismissed  from  the  wheel 
*  »  for  bad  steering,  was  sitting  on  the  fore- 
hatch,  a  figure  of  truculence  and  discontent,  mouth- 
ing a  statement  on  the  Rights  of  Man,  accompanied 
by  every  oath  ever  heard  on  Clydeside  from  Caird's 
to  Tommy  Seath's  at  Ru'glen.  It  was  not  the  loss 
of  his  turn  that  he  regretted — he  was  better  here, 
where  he  could  squirt  tobacco  juice  at  will,  than 
on  the  poop  under  the  Mate's  eye — but,  hardened 
at  the  '  Poort '  as  he  was,  he  could  not  but  feel  the 
curious  glances  of  his  watchmates,  lounging  about 
in  dog-watch  freedom  and  making  no  secret  of  their 
contempt  of  an  able  seaman  who  couldn't  steer,  to 
begin  with. 

"  'Ow  wos  she  'eadin',  young  feller,  w'en  ye — 
left  ?  "  Cockney  Hicks,  glancing  away  from  the 
culprit,  was  looking  at  the  trembling  leaches  of 
top'gal'nsails,  sign  of  head  winds. 

22 


STEERSMANSHIP  23 

"  'Er  heid  ?    Ach,  aboot  Nor'  thurty  west  !  " 

"  Nor'  thirty  west  ?  Blimy  !  Where  th'  'ell's 
that  ?  'Ere  !  Give  us  it  in  points  !  None  o'  yer 
bloomin'  degrees  aboard  square-sail,  young  feller  !  " 

"  Weel,  that's  a'  th'  wye  I  ken  it !  "  Sullen, 
mouth  twisted  askew  in  the  correct  mode  of  the 
'  Poort,'  defiant. 

"  It  wis  aye  degrees  in  a'  th'  boats  I  hiv  been 
in — none  o'  thae  wee  black  chats  ye  ca'  p'ints  ;  we 
niver  heeded  thim.  Degrees,  an'  '  poort '  an' 
•  starboord  ' — t'  hell  wit'  yer  '  luffs  '  an'  '  nae 
highers '  !  '* 

"  Blimy  !  " 

"  Aye,  blimy  !  An'  I  cud  steer  them  as  nate's 
ye  like  ;  but  I'm  no  guid  enough  fur  that  swine  o'  a 
Mate,  aft  there  !  "  He  spat  viciously.  "  '  Nae 
higher,'  sez  he  t'  me.  '  Nae  higher,  Sur,'  says  I, 
pitten'  the  wheel  a  bit  doon.  '  Up,'  says  he,  '  up, 
blast  ye  !  Ye're  lettin  'r  come  up  i'  th'  win','  says 
he.  I  pit  th'  —  wheel  up,  keepin'  ma  'ee  on  th' 
compass  caird  ;  but  that  wis  a  fau't  tae.  .  .  .  '  Damn 
ye  !  '  says  he ;  '  keep  yer  'ee  on  th'  to'gallan' 
leaches.'  .  .  .  '  Whaur's  that  ?  '  sez  I.  '  Oh,  holy 
smoke  !  '  sez  he.  '  Whit  hiv  we  got  here  ?  '  An' 
he  cam'  ower  and  hut  me  a  kick,  an'  shouts  fur 
anither  haun'  t'  th'  wheel !  .  .  .  By "  mum- 


24  THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

bling  a  vicious  formula,  eyes  darkening  angrily  as 
he  looked  aft  at  the  misty  figure  on  the  poop. 

Cockney  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  Wot  boats  'ave  ye  bin  in,  anyway  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Them  boats  wot  ye  never  steered  by  th'  win' 
before  ?  " 

"  —  fine  boats  !  A  han'  sicht  better  nor  this 
bluidy  ould  wreck.  Boats  wi'  a  guid  gaun  screw  at 
th'  stern  av  thim  !  Steamers,  av  coorse  !  This  is 
th'  furst  bluidy  win'-jammer  I  hae  been  in,  an'  by 
—  it'll  be  th'  last !  An'  that  Mate  !  Him  !  .  .  . 
Oh  !  If  I  only  hid  'm  in  Rue-en'  Street  .  .  .  wi' 
ma  crood  aboot," — kicking  savagely  at  a  coil  of 
rope — "  he  widna  be  sae  smert  wi'  'is  fit !  Goad, 
no!" 

"  Ye'  fust  win'-jammer,  eh  ?  "  said  Cockney 
pleasantly.  "  Oh  well — ye'U  l'arn  a  lot !  Blimy, 
ye'll  l'arn  a  lot  before  ye  sees  Rue-hend  Street  again. 
An'  look  'ere  !  " — as  if  it  were  a  small  matter — "  if 
ye  cawn't  steer  th'  bloomin'  ship  afore  we  clears  th' 
bloomin'  Channel,  ye  kin  count  hon  me  fer  a 
bloomin'  good  'idin'  !  I  ain't  agoin'  t'  take 
no  other  bloomin'  bloke's  w'eel !  Not  much,  I 
ain't !  " 

"  Nor  me!"  "  Nor  me!"  said  the  others,  and 
Wee  Laughlin,  looking  round  at  the  ring  of  threat- 


STEERSMANSHIP  25 

ening  faces,  realised  that  he  was  up  against  a 
greater  power  than  the  Officer  tramping  the  poop 
beyond. 

"  Wull  ye  no'  ?  "  he  said,  spitting  with  a  great 
show  of  bravery.  "  Wull  ye  no'  ?  Mebbe  I'll  hae 
sumthin'  t'  say  aboot  th'  hidin'.  .  .  .  An'  ye'U  hae 
twa  av  us  tae  hide  whin  ye're  a'  it.  I'm  nut  th' 
only  yin.  There's  the  Hielan'man  .  .  .  him  wi'  th' 
fush  scales  on's  oilskins.  He  nivvir  wis  in  a  win'- 
jammer  afore,  he  telt  me  ;   an' " 

"  An'  whaat  eef  I  nefer  wass  in  a  win'-chammer 
pefore  ?  "  M'Innes,  quick  to  anger,  added  another 
lowering  face  to  the  group.  "  Wait  you  till  I  am 
sent  awaay  from  th'  wheel  ...  an'  thaat  iss  not 
yet,  no  !  .  .  .  Hielan'man  ?  .  .  .  Hielan'man  ?  .  .  . 
Tamm  you,  I  wass  steerin'  by  th'  win'  pefore  you 
wass  porn,  aye  !  .  .  .  An'  aal  t'  time  you  wass  in 
chail,  yess !  " 

In  the  face  of  further  enmity,  Wee  Laughlin  said 
no  more,  preferring  to  gaze  darkly  at  the  unknow- 
ing Mate,  while  his  lips  made  strange  formations — 
excess  of  thought !  The  others,  with  a  few  further 
threats — a  word  or  two  about  '  hoodlums '  and 
'  them  wot  signed  for  a  man's  wage,  an'  couldn't 
do  a  man's  work ' — returned  to  their  short  dog- 
watch pacings,  two  and  two,  talking  together  of 


26  THE    BRASSBOUNDEK 

former  voyages  and  the  way  of  things  on  their  last 
ships. 

We  were  in  the  North  Channel,  one  day  out,  with 
the  Mull  of  Cantyre  just  lost  to  view.  The  light 
wind  that  had  carried  us  out  to  the  Firth  had 
worked  to  the  westward,  to  rain  and  misty  weather, 
and  all  day  we  had  been  working  ship  in  sight  of 
the  Irish  coast,  making  little  headway  against  the 
wind.  It  was  dreary  work,  this  laggard  setting  out 
— hanging  about  the  land,  tack  and  tack,  instead 
of  trimming  yards  to  a  run  down  Channel.  Out  on 
the  open  sea  we  could  perforce  be  philosophic,  and 
talk  of  '  the  more  days,  the  more  dollars  '  ;  but 
here  in  crowded  waters,  with  the  high  crown  of 
Innistrahull  mocking  at  our  efforts,  it  was  difficult 
not  to  think  of  the  goodness  of  a  shore  life.  As  the 
close  of  each  watch  came  round  the  same  spirit  of 
discontent  prompted  the  question  of  the  relief, 
officer  or  man.  On  the  poop  it  was,  "  Well,  Mister  ! 
How's  her  head  now  ?  Any  sign  of  a  slant  ?  "  On 
the  foredeck,  '"Ere!  Wot  th'  'ell  'ave  ye  bin 
doin'  with  'er  ?  Got  th'  bloomin'  anchor  down 
or  wot  ?  " 

At  nightfall  the  rain  came  down  heavily  before 
fitful  bursts  of  chill  wind.  Ours  was  the  first  watch, 
and  tramping  the  deck  in  stiff,  new  oilskins,  we 


STEERSMANSHIP  27 

grumbled  loudly  at  the  ill-luck  that  kept  us  marking 
time. 

"  I  wonder  w'y  th'  Old  Man  don't  put  abaht  an' 
run  dahn  th'  Gawges  Channel.  Wot's  'e  'angin' 
abaht  'ere  for,  hanyvv'y  ?  Wot  does  'e  expeck  ?  " 
said  Cockney,  himself  a  '  navigator ' — by  his  way 
of  it. 

"  Oh,  shift  o'  wind,  or  something,"  said  I.  "  I 
was  aft  at  th'  binnacles  an'  heard  him  talkin'  t'  th' 
Mate  about  it.  Says  th'  wind  '11  back  t'  th'  south'ard 
if  th'  barometer  don't  rise.  Told  the  Mate  to  call 
him  if  the  glass  went  up  before  twelve.  I  see  old 
'  Steady-all '  "  (we  are  one  day  out,  but  all  properly 
named)  "  popping  up  and  down  the  cabin  stairs. 
He'll  be  building  a  reef  of  burnt  matches  round  the 
barometers  before  that  fair  wind  comes." 

"  Sout'  vass  fair  vind,  ass  ve  goes  now,  aind't 
id  ?  "  asked  Dutch  John,  a  pleasant-faced  North 
German. 

"Fair  wind?  'Oo  th'  'ell's  talkin'  'bout  fair 
win's,  an'  that  Shmit  at  th'  w'eel  ?  'Ow  d'3'e  ex- 
peck  a  fair  win'  with  a  Finn — a  bloody  Rooshian 
Finn's  a-steerin'  ov  'er  ?  "  Martin,  a  tough  old 
sea-dog,  with  years  of  service,  claimed  a  hearing. 

"  No,  an'  we  won't  'ave  no  fair  win'  till  a  lucky 
man  steers  'er  !    Ain't  much  that  way  myself — me 


28  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

bein  a  Liverpool  man — but  there's  Collins  there — 
the  nigger.  .  .  .  Niggers  is  lucky,  an'  West-country- 
men, an'  South  of  Ireland  men — if  they  ain't  got 
black  'air — but  Finns  !  Finns  is  the  wu'st  o'  bloody 
bad  luck  !  .  .  .  Knowed  a  Finn  onst  wot  raised  an 
'owlin'  gale  agin  us,  just  a-cos  th'  01'  Man  called 
'im  a  cross-eyed  son  ef  a  gun  fur  breakin'  th'  p'int 
ov  a  marlinspike  !  Raised  an  'owlin'  gale,  'e  did  ! 
No,  no  !  Ye  won't  'ave  no  fair  win'  till  a  lucky 
man  goes  aft.  'Ere,  Collins  !  Your  nex'  w'eel, 
ain't  it?" 

Collins  grinned  an  affirmative. 

"  Right-o  !  Well,  young  fellers,  ye  kin  spit  on 
yer  'an's  fur  squarin'  them  yards  somewheres  be- 
tween four  an'  eight  bells.  Nuthin'  like  a  nigger 
for  bringin'  fair  win's.  .  .  .  An'  'e's  a  speshul  kind 
o'  nigger,  too.  .  .  .  Nova  Scotiaman,  Pictou  way 
.  .  .  talks  the  same  lingo  as  th'  'ilandman  .  .  . 
'im  on  th'  look-out,  there." 

"  Not  the  Gaelic,  surely  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Aye,  Gaelic.  That's  it.  They  speak  that  lingo 
out  there,  black  an'  w'ite.  Knowed  lots  o'  niggers 
wot  spoke  it  .  .  .  an'  chows  too  !  " 

I  turned  to  Collins — a  broad,  black  nigger  with 
thick  lips,  woolly  hair,  white,  gleaming  teeth — the 
type  !    He  grinned. 


STEERSMANSHIP  29 

"  Oh  yass,"  he  said.  "  Dat's  ri'  !  Dey  speak  de 
Gaelic  dere — dem  bluenose  Scotchmen,  an'  Ah  larn 
it  when  Ah  wass  small  boy.  Ah  doan'  know  much 
now  .  .  .  forgot  it  mos'  .  .  .  but  Ah  know  'nuff  t' 
ask  dat  boy  Munro  how  de  wass.  Hoo  !  Ho  I  ! 
Hoo ! ! !  '  Cia  mar  tha  thu  nis,'  Ah  says,  an'  he 
got  so  fright',  he  doan'  be  seasick  no  mo'  1  " 

A  wondrous  cure ! 

At  ten  Collins  relieved  the  wheel  and  we  looked 
for  the  shift  that  old  Martin  had  promised,  but 
there  was  no  sign  of  it — no  lift  to  the  misty  horizon, 
no  lessening  in  the  strength  of  the  squalls,  now 
heavy  with  a  smashing  of  bitter  sleet.  Bunched 
up  against  the  helm,  a  mass  of  oilskins  glistening 
in  the  compass  light,  our  '  lucky  man  '  scarce  seemed 
to  be  doing  anything  but  cower  from  the  weather. 
Only  the  great  eyes  of  him,  peering  aloft  from  under 
the  peak  of  his  sou'wester,  showed  that  the  man 
was  awake  ;  and  the  ready  turns  of  the  helm,  that 
brought  a  steering  tremor  to  the  weather  leaches, 
marked  him  a  cunning  steersman,  whichever  way 
his  luck  lay. 

Six  bells  struck,  the  Mate  stepped  below 
to  the  barometers,  and  a  gruff  "  Up !  up  I " 
(his  way  of  a  whisper)  accompanied  the  tapping 
of  the  aneroid.    There  he  found  encouragement  and 


3o  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

soon  had  the  Old  Man  on  deck,  peering  with  him 
in  the  wind's  eye  at  the  brightening  glare  of  Innis- 
trahull  Light  out  in  the  west. 

"  Clearing,  eh  ?  And  the  glass  risin',"  said  the 
Old  Man.  "  Looks  like  nor'-west !  Round  she  goes, 
Mister :  we'll  lose  no  more  time.  Stan'  by  t'  wear 
ship ! " 

"  Aye,  aye,  Sir  !  Stan'  by  t'  square  mainyards, 
the  watch,  there  !  " 

Shouting  as  he  left  the  poop,  the  Mate  mustered 
his  men  at  the  braces. 

"  Square  mainyards  !  That's  th'  talk,"  said  old 
Martin,  throwing  the  coils  down  with  a  swing. 
"  Didn't  Ah  tell  ye  it  wos  a  nigger  as'd  bring  a 
fair  win' !  " 

"  But  it  ain't  fair  yet,"  said  I.  "  Wind's  west 
as  ever  it  was  ;  only  th'  Old  Man's  made  up  his 
mind  t'  run  her  down  th'  George's  Channel.  Might 
ha'  done  that  four  hours  ago  !  " 

"  Wot's  th'  use  o'  talkin'  like  that  ?  'Ow  th'  'ell 
could  'e  make  up  'is  min'  wi'  a  Rooshian  Finn  at 
th'  w'eel,  eh  ?  Don't  tell  me  !  Ah  knows  as  nig- 
gers is  lucky  an'  Finns  ain't ;  an'  don't  ye  give  me 
none  o'  yer  bloody  sass,  young  feller,  cos  .  .  ." 
("  Haul  away  mainyards,  there  !  ")  .  .  .  "  Ho  I 
,.,  io  ...  10.  ...  Ho  !  round  'em  in,  me  sons. 


STEERSMANSHIP  31 

.  .  .  Ho !  .  .  .  to  .  .  .  io.  .  .  .  Twenty  days  t'  th' 
Line,  boys !  .  .  .  Ho  .  .  .  io  .  .  .  ho ! " 

A  hard  case,  Martin  ! 

Turning  on  heel,  we  left  Innistrahull  to  fade  away 
on  the  quarter,  and,  under  the  freshening  breeze, 
made  gallant  steering  for  the  nigger.  This  was 
more  like  the  proper  way  to  go  to  sea,  and  when 
eight  bells  clanged  we  called  the  other  watch  with 
a  rousing  shout. 

"  Out,  ye  bloomin'  Jonahs  !  Turn  out,  and  see 
what  the  port  watch  can  do  for  ye.  A  fair  wind 
down  Channel,  boys  !  Come  on  !  Turn  out,  ye 
hungry  Jonahs,  and  coil  down  for  your  betters  !  " 

■  ••••• 

After  two  days  of  keen  sailing,  running  through 
the  Channel  traffic,  we  reached  the  edge  of  sound- 
ings. The  nor' -west  breeze  still  held,  though  blow- 
ing light,  and  under  a  spread  of  canvas  we  were 
leaning  away  to  the  south'ard  on  a  course  for  the 
Line  Crossing.  We  sighted  a  large  steamer  coming 
in  from  the  west,  and  the  Old  Man,  glad  of  a  chance 
to  be  reported,  hauled  up  to  '  speak  '  her.  In  hoists 
of  gaily  coloured  bunting  we  told  our  name  and 
destination,  and  a  wisp  of  red  and  white  at  the 
liner's  mast  acknowledged  our  message.  As  she 
sped  past  she  flew  a  cheering  signal  to  wish  us  a 


32  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

'  pleasant  voyage,'  and  then  lowered  her  ensign  to 
ours  as  a  parting  salute. 

"  Keep  her  off  to  her  course  again — sou'-west, 
half  south  !  "  ordered  the  Old  Man  when  the  last 
signal  had  been  made. 

"  Aff  tae  her  coorse  ag'in,  Sur  !  Sou'-west,  hauf 
south,  Sur  !  " 

At  sound  of  the  steersman's  answer  I  turned 
from  my  job  at  the  signal  locker.  Wee  Laughlin, 
eyes  on  the  weather  clew  of  the  royals,  was  learn- 
ing 1 


Ill 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  HALF-DECK 

"  I  "HE  guttering  lamp  gave  little  light  in  the 
half-deck  ;  its  trimming  had  been  neglected 
on  this  day  of  storm,  so  we  sat  in  semi-gloom  listen- 
ing to  the  thunder  of  seas  outside.  On  the  grimy 
deal  table  lay  the  remains  of  our  supper — crumbs 
of  broken  sea-biscuits,  a  scrap  of  greasy  salt  horse, 
dirty  plates  and  pannikins,  a  fork  stabbed  into  the 
deal  to  hold  the  lot  from  rolling,  and  an  overturned 
hook-pot  that  rattled  from  side  to  side  at  each  lurch 
of  the  ship,  the  dregs  of  the  tea  it  had  held  drip- 
ping to  the  weltering  floor.  For  once  in  a  way  we 
were  miserably  silent.  We  sat  dourly  together,  as 
cheerless  a  quartette  as  ever  passed  watch  below. 
"  Who  wouldn't  sell  his  farm  and  go  to  sea  ?  " 
asked  Hansen,  throwing  off  his  damp  jacket  and 
boots  and  turning  into  his  bunk.  "  '  A  life  on  th' 
ocean  wave,'  eh  ?  Egad  !  here's  one  who  wishes 
he  had  learned  to  drive  a  wagon  !  " 
d  33 


34  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  And  another,"  said  Eccles.  "  That — or  selling 
matches  on  th'  highway !  .  .  .  Come  on,  Kid ! 
Get  a  move  on  ye  and  clear  away  !  .  .  .  And  mind 
ye  jamm  the  gear  off  in  the  locker.  No  more  o' 
these  tricks  like  ye  did  in  Channel — emptyin'  half 
the  bloomin'  whack  into  th'  scupper  !  You  jamm 
the  gear  off  proper,  or  I'll  lick  ye  !  " 

Young  Munro,  the  '  peggy '  of  our  watch,  swal- 
lowed hard  and  set  about  his  bidding.  His  small 
features  were  pinched  and  drawn,  and  a  ghastly 
pallor  showed  that  a  second  attack  of  sea-sickness 
was  not  far  off.  He  staggered  over  to  the  table  and 
made  a  half-hearted  attempt  to  put  the  gear  away. 

"  What's  th'  matter  with  ye  ?  "  said  Eccles 
roughly.  "  Ye've  been  long  enough  away  from  ye'r 
mammy  t'  be  able  t'  keep  ye'r  feet.  A  fortnight 
at  sea,  an'  still  comin'  th'  '  Gentle  Annie  '  !  You 
look  sharp  now,  an'  don't " 

"  Eccles ! " 

"  Eh  ?  " 

"  You  let  the  Kid  alone,"  said  Hansen  in  a 
dreamy,  half-sleepy  tone.  "  You  let  the  Kid  alone, 
or  I'll  twist  your  damn  neck  !  Time  enough  for  you 
to  start  chinnin'  when  your  elders  are  out  o'  sight. 
You  shut  up  !  " 

"  Oh,  all  right !     Ye  needn't  get  ratty.     If  you 


WAY  OF   THE    HALF-DECK      35 

want  t'  pamper  the  bloomin'  Kid,  it's  none  of  my 
business,  I  s'pose.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  you  took 
jolly  good  care  I  did  my  '  peggy  '  last  voyage  ! 
There  was  no  pamperin'  that  I  remember  !  " 

"  Different  !  "  said  Hansen,  still  in  the  same 
sleepy  tone.  "  Different  !  You  were  always  big 
enough  an'  ugly  enough  t'  stand  the  racket.  You 
leave  the  Kid  alone  !  " 

Eccles  turned  away  to  his  bunk  and,  seeking  his 
pipe,  struck  match  after  match  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  light  the  damp  tobacco.  Now  and  then  the  ship 
would  falter  in  her  swing — an  ominous  moment  of 
silence  and  steadiness — before  the  shock  of  a  big 
sea  sent  her  reeling  again.  The  crazy  old  half -deck 
rocked  and  groaned  at  the  battery  as  the  sea  ran 
aft,  and  a  spurt  of  green  water  came  from  under 
the  covering  board.  Some  of  the  sea-chests  worked 
out  of  the  lashings  and  rattled  down  to  leeward. 
Eccles  and  I  triced  them  up,  then  stowed  the  supper 
gear  in  the  locker. 

"  A  few  more  big  'uns  like  that,"  said  I,  "  and 
this  rotten  old  house  '11  go  a-voyagin'  !  .  .  .  Won- 
der it  has  stood  so  long." 

"  Do  ye  think  there's  danger  ?  "  asked  the  Kid, 
in  a  falter,  and  turning  terrified  eyes  on  one  after 
another. 


36  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Course,"  said  Hansen — we  had  thought  him 
asleep — "  course  there  is  !  That's  what  ye  came 
here  for,  isn't  it  ?  This  is  when  th'  hero  stands  on 
th'  weather  taffrail,  graspin'  th'  tautened  backst'y 
an'  hurlin'  defiance  at  th'  mighty  elements — '  Nick 
Carter,'  chap,  one  !  " 

Eccles  and  I  grinned.    Munro  took  heart. 

"  Danger,"  still  the  drowsy  tone,  "  I  should 
think  there  is  !  Why,  any  one  o'  these  seas  might 
sweep  the  harness-cask  and  t'morrow's  dinner  over- 
board !    Any  one  of  'em  might " 

The  door  swung  to  with  a  crash,  a  blast  of  chill 
wind  and  rain  blew  in  on  us,  the  lamp  flickered  and 
flared,  a  dripping  oilskin-clad  figure  clambered  over 
the  washboard. 

"  Door  !  door  !  "  we  yelled  as  he  fumbled  awk- 
wardly with  the  handle. 

"  Oh,  shut  up  !  Ye'd  think  it  was  the  swing-door 
of  a  pub.  t'  hear  ye  shouting  !  "  He  pulled  heavily, 
and  the  broken-hinged  baulk  slammed  into  place. 
It  was  Jones,  of  the  other  watch,  come  in  to  turn 
us  out. 

"  Well,  I'm  hanged  I "  He  looked  around  the 
house — at  the  litter  on  the  floor,  at  the  spurting 
water  that  lashed  across  with  the  lurch  of  her. 
"  Why  don't  some  of  ye  bale  the  place  out  'stead 


WAY  OF  THE    HALF-DECK      37 

of  standing  by  t'  shout  '  Door,  door  !  '  when  there's 
no  need  ?  Damn  !  Look  at  that !  "  She  lurched 
again.  A  foot  or  more  of  broken  water  dashed  from 
side  to  side,  carrying  odds  of  loose  gear  with  it. 
"  Egad  !  The  port  watch  for  lazy  sojers — every 
time  !  Why  don't  ye  turn  to  an'  dry  the  half-deck 
out  ?  Oh  no  ;  not  your  way  !  It's  '  Damn  you, 
Jack — I'm  all  right ! '  with  you  chaps.  Goin'  on 
deck  again  soon,  eh  ?  Why  should  ye  dry  up  for 
the  other  watch,  eh  ?  ...  Oh  !  all  right.  Just 
you " 

"  Oh,  dry  up  yourself,  Jones  !  "  Hansen  sat  up 
in  his  bunk  and  turned  his  legs  out.  "  What  you 
making  all  the  noise  about  ?  We've  been  balin' 
and  balin',  and  it's  no  use  !  No  use  at  all  .  .  . 
with  that  covering  board  working  loose  and  the 
planks  opening  out  at  every  roll.  .  .  .  What's  up, 
anyway  ?  ...  All  hands,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes.  '  All  hands  wear  ship  '  at  eight  bells  ! 
We've  just  set  the  fore  lower  tops'l.  Think  we 
must  be  getting  near  the  Western  Islands  by  the 
way  th'  Old  Man's  poppin'  up  and  down.  It's 
pipin'  outside  !  Blowin'  harder  than  ever,  and  that 
last  big  sea  stove  in  the  weather  side  of  the  galley. 
The  watch  are  at  it  now,  planking  up  and  that. 
.  .  .  Well,   I'm   off !     Ye've   quarter   an   hour   t' 


J 


8  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 


get  your  gear  on.  Lively,  now  !  .  .  ."  At  the 
door  he  turned,  eyeing  the  floor,  now  awash. 
"  Look  here,  young  'un  " — to  poor,  woebegone 
Munro — "  the  Mate  says  you're  not  to  come  on 
deck.  You  stay  here  and  bale  up,  an'  if  the  damn 
place  isn't  dry  when  we  come  below  I'll  hide  the 
life  out  o'  ye  !  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  no  use  screwin'  your 
face  up.  '  Cry  baby '  business  is  no  good  aboard 
a  packet !  You  buck  up  an'  bale  the  house  .  .  . 
or  .  .  .  look  out !  "  He  heaved  at  the  door, 
sprawled  over,  and  floundered  out  into  the  black 
night. 

Munro  turned  a  white,  despairing  face  on  us 
elders.  We  had  no  support  for  him.  Hansen  was 
fumbling  with  his  belt.  I  was  drawing  on  my 
long  boots.  Both  of  us  seemed  not  to  have  heard. 
This  was  the  way  of  the  half-deck.  With  Eccles 
it  had  been  different.  He  was  only  a  second  voy- 
ager, a  dog-watch  at  sea — almost  a  '  greenhorn.' 
There  was  time  enough  for  him  to  '  chew  the  rag ' 
when  he  had  got  the  length  of  keeping  a  regular 
'  wheel  and  look  out.'  Besides,  it  was  a  '  breach  ' 
for  him  to  start  bossing  about  when  there  were 
two  of  his  elders  in  the  house.  We  could  fix  him 
all  right ! 

Ah  !    But  Jones  !  .  .  »  It  was  not  that  we  were 


WAY  OF   THE    HALF-DECK      39 

afraid  of  him.  Either  of  us  would  have  plugged 
him  one  at  the  word  '  Go  ! '  if  it  had  been  a  straight 
affair  between  us.  But  this  was  no  business  of 
ours.  Jones  was  almost  a  man.  In  a  month  or 
two  his  time  would  be  out.  There  could  be  no 
interference,  not  a  word  could  be  said ;  it  was — 
the  way  of  the  half-deck. 

Swaying,  sailor-like,  on  the  reeling  deck,  we  drew 
on  our  oilskins  and  sea-boots,  buckled  our  belts, 
tied  down  the  flaps  of  our  sou'westers,  and  made 
ready.  While  we  were  at  it  Munro  started  on  his 
task.  He  filled  the  big  bucket,  dragged  it  half- 
way to  the  door,  then  sat  down  heavily  with  a  low 
cry  of  dismay. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Kid,  eh  ?  "  said  Hansen 
kindly.  "  Got  the  blues,  eh  ?  Buck  up,  man  ! 
Blue's  a  rotten  colour  aboard  ship  !  Here,  hand 
me  the  bucket !  " 

He  gripped  the  handle,  stood  listening  for  a 
chance,  then  swung  the  door  out  an  inch  or  two, 
and  tipped  the  bucket. 

"  It  .  .  .  it's  .  .  .  not  .  .  .  that,"  said  the 
youngster.  "  It's  .  .  .  s-s-staying  in  here  w-when 
you  fellows  are  on  d-deck  !  .  .  .  Ye  .  .  .  s-said 
th'  house  m-might  go  .  .  .  any  time !  .  .  .  Let 
me  come  !  .  .  ." 


4o  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  No,  no  !  Th'  Mate  said  you  weren't  t'  come 
on  deck  !  You  stay  here  !  You'd  only  be  in  th' 
way  !  You'll  be  all  right  here ;  the  rotten  old 
box  '11  stand  a  few  gales  yet !  .  .  .  What's 
that  ?  " 

Above  the  shrilling  of  the  gale  we  heard  the 
Mate's  bull  roar :  "  All  .  .  .  hands  .  .  .  wear  .  .  . 
ship !  " 

We  took  our  chance,  swung  the  door  to,  and 
dashed  out.  Dismayed  for  a  moment — the  sudden 
change  from  light  to  utter  darkness — we  brought 
up,  grasping  the  life-lines  in  the  waist,  and  swaying 
to  meet  the  wild  lurches  of  the  ship.  As  our  eyes 
sobered  to  the  murk  we  saw  the  lift  of  the  huge 
seas  that  thundered  down  the  wind.  No  glint  of 
moon  or  star  broke  through  the  mass  of  driving 
cloud  that  blackened  the  sky  to  windward ;  only 
when  the  gleam  of  a  breaking  crest  spread  out 
could  we  mark  the  depth  to  which  we  drove,  or 
the  height  when  we  topped  a  wall  of  foaming 
water.  The  old  barque  was  labouring  heavily, 
reeling  to  it,  the  decks  awash  to  our  knees.  Only 
the  lower  tops'ls  and  a  stays'l  were  set ;  small 
canvas,  but  spread  enough  to  keep  her  head  at  the 
right  angle  as  wave  after  wave  swept  under  or  all 
but  over  her.    "  Stations  !  "  we  heard  the  Mate 


WAY   OF  THE    HALF-DECK      41 

calling  from  his  post  at  the  lee  fore  braces.  "  Lay 
along  here  !    Port  watch,  forrard  !  " 

We  floundered  through  the  swirl  of  water  that 
brimmed  the  decks  and  took  our  places.  Aft,  we 
could  see  the  other  watch  standing  by  at  the  main. 
Good  !  It  would  be  a  quick  job,  soon  over  !  The 
Old  Man  was  at  the  weather  gangway,  conning 
the  ship  and  waiting  for  a  chance.  Below  him,  all 
hands  stood  at  his  orders — twenty-three  lives  were 
in  his  keeping  at  the  moment ;  but  there  was  no 
thought  of  that — we  knew  our  Old  Jock,  we  boasted 
of  his  sea  cunning.  At  length  the  chance  came  ; 
a  patch  of  lesser  violence  after  a  big  sea  had  been 
met  and  surmounted.  The  sure,  steady  eye  marked 
the  next  heavy  roller.  There  was  time  and  dis- 
tance !  .  .  .  "  Helm  up,  there  !  "  (Old  Jock  for  a 
voice  !) 

Now  her  head  paid  off,  and  the  order  was 
given,  '  Square  mainyards  !  '  Someone  wailed  a 
hauling  cry  and  the  great  yards  swung  round, 
tops'l  lifting  to  the  quartering  wind.  As  the  wind 
drew  aft  she  gathered  weight  and  scudded  before 
the  gale.  Seas  raced  up  and  crashed  their  bulk  at 
us  when,  at  the  word,  we  strained  together  to  drag 
the  foreyards  from  the  backstays.  Now  she 
rolled  the  rails  under — green,  solid  seas  to  each 


42  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

staggering  lift.  At  times  it  seemed  as  if  we  were 
all  swept  overboard  there  was  no  hold  to  the 
feet !  We  stamped  and  floundered  to  find  a  solid 
place  to  brace  our  feet  and  knees  against ;  trailed 
out  on  the  ropes — all  afloat — when  she  scooped  the 
ocean  up,  yet  stood  and  hauled  when  the  chance 
was  ours.  A  back  roll  would  come.  "  Hold  all ! 
.  .  .  Stand  to  it,  sons  !  .  .  ."  With  a  jerk  that 
seemed  to  tear  at  the  limbs  of  us,  the  heavy  yards 
would  weigh  against  us.  There  was  no  pulling  .  .  . 
only  "  stand  and  hold  "  .  ,  .  "  hold  hard."  Then, 
to  us  again  :  "  Hay  .  .  *  o  .  .  .  Ho.  .  .  .  Hay 
.  .  .  o  !  .  .  .  Round  'em  in,  boys  !  .  .  .  "  Quick 
work,  hand  over  hand,  the  blocks  rattling  cheerily 
as  we  ran  in  the  slack. 

"  Vast  haulin'  foreyards !  Turn  all  and  lay 
aft !  "  We  belayed  the  ropes,  and  struggled  aft 
to  where  the  weaker  watch  were  hauling  manfully. 
The  sea  was  now  on  the  other  quarter,  and- lash- 
ing over  the  top  rail  with  great  fury.  Twice  the 
Second  Mate,  who  was  'tending  the  weather  braces, 
was  washed  down  among  us,  still  holding  by  the 
ropes.  "  Haul  awaay,  lauds  !  "  he  would  roar  as 
he  struggled  back  to  his  perilous  post.  "  Haul, 
you ! " 

We  dragged  the  yards  to  a  new  tack ;    then  to 


WAY  OF  THE    HALF-DECK     43 

the  fore,  where  again  we  stood  the  buffet  till  we 
had  the  ship  in  trim  for  heaving-to. 

"  All  hands  off  the  deck !  "  roared  the  Mate 
when  the  headyards  were  steadied.  "  Lay  aft,  all 
hands !  " 

Drenched  and  arm  weary  as  we  were,  there  was 
no  tardiness  in  our  scramble  for  safe  quarters — 
some  to  the  poop,  some  to  the  main  rigging.  We 
knew  what  would  come  when  she  rounded-to  in  a 
sea  like  that. 

"  All  ready,  Sir,"  said  the  Mate  when  he  came 
aft  to  report.    "  All  hands  are  off  the  deck  !  " 

"  Aye,  aye  !  "  Old  Jock  was  peering  out  to 
windward,  watching  keenly  for  a  chance  to  put 
his  helm  down.  There  was  a  perceptible  lull  in 
the  wind,  but  the  sea  was  high  as  ever.  The  heavy, 
racing  clouds  had  broken  in  the  zenith  ;  there  were 
rifts  here  and  there  through  which  shone  fleeting 
gleams  from  the  moon,  lighting  the  furious  ocean 
for  a  moment,  then  vanishing  as  the  storm-wrack 
swept  over. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  Old  Man  saw 
the  '  smooth  '  he  was  waiting  for.  A  succession  of 
big  seas  raced  up,  broke,  and  poured  aboard  :  one, 
higher  than  all,  swept  by,  sending  her  reeling  to 
the  trough.     Now — the  chance  !     "  Ease  th'  helm 


44  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

down  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Stand  by,  all !  "  Her 
head  swung  steadily  to  windward,  the  steering 
way  was  well  timed. 

Suddenly,  as  we  on  the  poop  watched  ahead,  a 
gleam  of  light  shone  on  the  wet  decks.  The  half- 
deck  door  was  swung  out — a  figure  blocked  the 
light,  sprawling  over  the  washboard  —  Munro ! 
"  Back  !  "  we  yelled.    "  Go  back  !  " 

There  was  time  enough,  but  the  youngster,  con- 
fused by  the  shouts,  ran  forward,  then  aft,  be- 
wildered. 

The  ship  was  bearing  up  to  the  wind  and  sea. 
Already  her  head  was  driving  down  before  the 
coming  of  the  wave  that  was  to  check  her  way. 
In  a  moment  it  would  be  over  us.  The  Mate 
leapt  to  the  ladder,  but,  as  he  balanced,  we  saw 
one  of  the  men  in  the  main  rigging  slide  down  a 
backstay,  drop  heavily  on  deck,  recover,  and  dash 
on  towards  the  boy. 

Broad  on  the  beam  of  her,  the  sea  tore  at  us 
and  brimmed  the  decks — a  white-lashing  fury  of 
a  sea,  that  swept  fore  and  aft,  then  frothed  in  a 
whelming  torrent  to  leeward. 

When  we  got  forward  through  the  wash  of  it, 
we  found  Jones  crouching  under  the  weather  rail. 
One  arm  was  jammed  round  the  bulwark  stanchion, 


WAY   OF   THE    HALF-DECK      45 

the  wrist  stiffened  and  torn  by  the  wrench,  the 
other  held  the  Kid — a  limp,  unconscious  figure. 

"  Carry  him  aft,"  said  Jones.  "  I  think  .  .  . 
he's  ...  all  right  .  .  .  only  half  drowned  !  "  He 
swayed  as  he  spoke,  holding  his  hand  to  his  head, 
gasping,  and  spitting  out.  "  D-damn  young  swine  ! 
What  .  .  .  he  .  .  .  w-want  t'  come  on  deck  f-for  ? 
T-told  .  .  .  him  t'  .  .  .  s-stay  below  1  " 


IV 

THE   'DEAD   HORSE' 

I  MNE  weather,  if  hot  as  the  breath  of  Hades, 
■*•        and    the    last    dying    airs    of    the    nor'-east 
trades  drifting  us   to   the  south'ard  at  a  leisured 
three  knots. 

From  the  first  streak  of  daylight  we  had  been 
hard  at  work  finishing  up  the  general  overhaul  of 
gear  and  rigging  that  can  only  be  done  in  the 
steady  trade  winds.  Now  it  was  over ;  we  could 
step  out  aloft,  sure  of  our  foothold ;  all  the  trea- 
cherous ropes  were  safe  in  keeping  of  the  '  shakin's 
cask,'  and  every  block  and  runner  was  working 
smoothly,  in  readiness  for  the  shifting  winds  of 
the  doldrums  that  would  soon  be  with  us. 

The  work  done,  bucket  and  spar  were  manned 
and,  for  the  fourth  time  that  day,  the  sun-scorched 
planks  and  gaping  seams  of  the  deck  were  sluiced 
down — a  job  at  which  we  lingered,  splashing  the 
limpid  water  as  fast  the  wetted  planks  steamed  and 
dried  again.     A  grateful  coolness  came  with  the 

46 


THE   'DEAD  HORSE*  47 

westing  of  the  tyrant  sun,  and  when  our  miserable 
evening  meal  had  been  hurried  through  we  sought 
the  deck  again,  to  sit  under  the  cool  draught  of 
the  foresail  watching  the  brazen  glow  that  attended 
the  sun's  setting,  the  glassy  patches  of  windless 
sea,  the  faint  ripples  that  now  and  then  swept 
over  the  calm — the  dying  breath  of  a  stout  breeze 
that  had  lifted  us  from  if  North.  What  talk 
there  was  among  us  concerned  our  voyage,  a  never- 
failing  topic  ;  and  old  Martin,  to  set  the  speakers 
right,  had  brought  his  '  log  ' — a  slender  yardstick — 
from  the  forecastle. 

".  .  .  ty-seven  .  .  .  ty-eight  .  .  .  twenty-nine," 
he  said,  counting  a  row  of  notches.  "  Thirty  days 
hout  t'morrer,  an'  th'  '  dead  'orse  '  is  hup  t'  day, 
sons ! " 

"  '  Dead  'oss'  hup  t'  dye  ?  'Ow  d'ye  mike  that 
aht  ?  "  said  '  Cockney '  Hicks,  a  man  of  import- 
ance, now  promoted  to  bo'sun.  "  Fust  Sunday  we 
wos  in  Channel,  runnin'  dahn  th'  Irish  lights, 
worn't  it  ?  " 

"Aye!" 

"  Secon'  Sunday  we  wos  routin'  abaht  in  them 
strong  southerly  win's,  hoff  th'  Weste'n  Isles  ?  " 

"  That's  so,"  said  Martin,  patting  his  yard- 
stick.   "Right-o!" 


48  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Third  Sunday  we  'ad  th'  trides,  runnin' 
south ;  lawst  Sunday  wos  fourth  Sunday  hout, 
an'  this  'ere's  Friday — '  peasoup-dye,'  ain't  it  ? 
'Ow  d'ye  mike  a  month  o'  that  ?  '  Dead  'oss ' 
ain't  up  till  t'morrer,  I  reckon  !  " 

"  Well,  ye  reckons  wrong,  bo'sun  !  Ye  ain't  a- 
countin'  of  th'  day  wot  we  lay  at  anchor  at  th' 
Tail  o'  th'  Bank  !  " 

"  Blimy,  no  !    I'd  forgotten  that  dye  !  " 

"  No  !  An*  I  tell  ye  th'  '  dead  'orse  '  is  hup, 
right  enuff.  I  don't  make  no  mistake  in  my  log. 
.  .  .  Look  at  'ere,"  pointing  to  a  cross-cut  at  the 
head  of  his  stick.  "  That's  the  dye  wot  we  lay  at 
anchor — w'en  you  an'  me  an'  the  rest  ov  us  wos 
proper  drunk.  'Ere  we  starts  away,"  turning  to 
another  side ;  "  them  up  strokes  is  'ead  win's,  an' 
them  downs  is  fair  ;  'ere's  where  we  got  that  blow 
hoff  th'  Weste'n  Isles,"  putting  his  finger-nail  into 
a  deep  cleft ;  "  that  time  we  carries  away  th' 
topmas'  stays'l  sheet ;  an'  'ere's  th'  trade  win's 
wot  we're  'avin'  now  !  ...  All  k'rect,  I  tell  ye. 
Ain't  no  mistakes  'ere,  sons  !  "  He  put  the  stick 
aside  the  better  to  fill  his  pipe. 

"  Vat  yo'  calls  dem  holes  in  de  top,  Martin, 
zoone  ?    Dot  vass  sometings,  aind't  id  ?  " 


THE   'DEAD  HORSE'  49 

Vootgert,  the  Belgian,  picked  the  stick  up,  turn- 
ing it  over  carelessly. 

Martin  snatched  it  away. 

"  A  course  it's  '  sometings,'  ye  Flemish  'og  !  If 
ye  wants  to  know  pertiklar,  them  'oles  is  two  p'un' 
o'  tebaccer  wot  I  had  sence  I  come  aboard.  Don't 
allow  no  01'  Man  t'  do  me  in  the  bloomin'  hye  w'en 
it  comes  t'  tottin'  th'  bill !  ...  I'll  watch  it !  I 
keeps  a  good  tally  ov  wot  I  gets,  tho'  I  can't  read 
nor  write  like  them  young  '  know-alls  '  over  there  " 
(Martin  had  no  love  for  '  brassbounders  '),  "  them 
wot  orter  be  aft  in  their  proper  place,  an'  not 
sittin'  'ere,  chinnin'  wi'  th'  sailormen  !  " 

"  Who's  chinnin'  ?  "  said  Jones,  Martin's  par- 
ticular enemy.  "  Ain't  said  a  word  !  Not  but  what 
I  wanted  to  .  .  .  sittin'  here,  listenin'  to  a  lot  of 
bally  rot  about  ye'r  dead  horses  an'  logs  an' 
that !  " 

Jones  rose  with  a  great  pantomime  of  disgust 
(directed  especially  at  the  old  man),  and  went 
aft,  leaving  Munro  and  me  to  weather  Martin's 
rage. 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  Martin  !  "  said  the  bo'sun.  "  They 
ain't  doin'  no  'arm  !    Boys  is  boys  !  " 

"  Ho  no,  they  ain't,  bo'sun  :    not  in  this  ship, 

E 


50  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

they  ain't.  Boys  is  men,  an'  men's  old  beggars, 
'ere  !  I  don't  'old  wi'  them  a-comin'  forrard  'ere 
at  awl !  A  place  fer  everything,  an'  everybody  'as 
'is  place,  I  says  !  Captin'  on  the  bloomin'  poop  o' 
her,  an'  cook  t'  th'  foresheet  !  That's  shipshape 
an'  Bristol  fashion,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  That's  so,  that's  so  !  .  .  .  But  them  young 
'uns  is  'ere  for  hin-for-mashun,  eh  ?  " 

Martin  grumbled  loudly  and  turned  to  counting 
his  notches.  "  Know-alls  !  That's  wot  they  is — 
ruddy  know-alls  !  Told  me  I  didn't  know  wot  a 
fair  win'  wos  !  "  he  muttered  as  he  fingered  his 
'  log.' 

"  '  Dead  'oss  ?  '  "  said  the  bo'sun,  turning  to 
Munro.  "  '  Dead  'oss  '  is  th'  fust  month  out,  w'en 
ye're  workin'  for  ye'r  boardin'-mawster.  'E  gets 
ye'r  month's  advawnce  w'en  ye  sails,  an'  ye've  got 
to  work  that  hoff  afore  ye  earns  any  pay  !  " 

"  Who  vass  ride  your  '  dead  'oss,'  Martin  ?  " 
asked  the  Belgian  when  quiet  was  restored. 

"  Oh,  Jemmy  Grant ;  'im  wot  'as  an  'ouse  in 
Springfield  Lane.  Come  in  t'  th'  Clyde  in  th'  Loch 
Ness  from  Melb'un — heighty-five  days,  an'  a  damn 
good  passage  too,  an'  twel'  poun'  ten  of  a  pay 
day  1  Dunno'  'ow  it  went.  .  .  .  Spent  it  awl  in 
four  or  five  days.     I  put  up  at  Jemmy  Grant's 


THE   'DEAD  HORSE'  51 

for  a  week  'r  two  arter  th'  money  was  gone,  an'  'e 
guv'  me  five  bob  an'  a  new  suit  of  oilskins  out  'er 
my  month's  advawnce  on  this  'ere  'ooker  !  " 

"  Indeed  to  goodness,  now  !  That  iss  not  pad 
at  all,  indeed,"  said  John  Lewis,  our  brawny 
Welshman.  "  I  came  home  in  th'  Wanderer,  o'  St. 
Johnss,  an'  wass  paid  off  with  thirty-fife  poun'ss,  I 
tell  '00.  I  stayed  in  Owen  Evanss'  house  in  Great 
Clyde  Street,  an'  when  I  went  there  I  give  him 
ten  poun'ss  t'  keep  for  me.  '  Indeed,  an'  I  will,  m' 
lad,'  he  sayss,  '  an'  '00  can  have  it  whenever  '00 
likes,'  he  sayss.  .  .  .  Damn  him  for  a  rogue,  I 
tell  '00 !  " 

Martin  laughed.  "  Well,  ye  was  soft.  Them 
blokes'  bizness  is  keepin',  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Iss,  indeed  !  Well,  I  tell  '00,  I  got  in  trouble 
with  a  policeman  in  th'  Broomielaw.  It  took  four 
o'  them  to  run  me  in,  indeed  !  "  pleasantly  remi- 
niscent ;  "an'  the  next  mornin'  I  wass  put  up  for 
assaultin'  th'  police.  '  I  don't  know  nothin'  about 
it,'  I  sayss,  when  the  old  fella'  asked  me.  '  Thirty 
shillins'  or  fourteen  days,'  he  sayss  !  .  .  .  Well,  I 
didn't  haf  any  money  left,  but  I  told  a  policeman, 
and  he  said  he  would  send  for  Owen  Evanss.  .  .  . 
After  a  while  Evanss  come  to  the  office,  an'  they 
took  me  in.    I  was  quite  quiet,  indeed,  bein'  sober, 


52  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

I  tell  'oo.  .  .  .  '  Owen,  machgen-i,'  I  sayss,  '  will 
'oo  pay  the  thirty  shillin's  out  of  the  ten  poun'ss 
I  give  'oo  ?  '  '  What  ten  poun'ss  ?  '  he  sayss. 
'  What  ten  poun'ss  ?  '  I  sayss.  '  Diwedd-i,  the  ten 
poun'ss  I  give  'oo  t'  keep  for  me,'  I  sayss.  '  Ten 
poun'ss,'  he  sayss,  '  ten  poun'ss  to  keep  for  'oo, 
an'  it  iss  two  weeks'  board  an'  lodgin'  'oo  are  owin' 
me,  indeed  ! '  '  Damn  'oo  ! '  I  sayss.  '  Did  I  not 
give  'oo  ten  poun'ss  when  I  wass  paid  off  out  of 
the  Wanderer,  an'  'oo  said  'oo  would  keep  it  for 
me  and  give  it  back  again  when  I  wanted  it  ?  ' 
I  sayss.  .  .  .  '  What  are  'oo  talkin'  about  ?  '  he 
sayss.  '  'Oo  must  be  drunk,  indeed  !'...'  Have 
'oo  got  a  receipt  for  it,  m'  lad  ? '  sayss  the  Sergeant. 
'  No,  indeed,'  I  sayss.  '  I  didn't  ask  him  for  a 
receipt.'  .  .  .  '  Oh,'  he  sayss,  '  we've  heard  this 
pefore,'  he  sayss,  shuttin'  th'  book  an'  signin'  to 
the  policeman  to  put  me  away.  I  made  for  Owen 
Evanss,  but  there  wass  too  many  policemen  in- 
deed. ...  So  I  had  to  serve  the  month,  I  tell 
'oo  !  "  John  stroked  his  beard  mournfully,  mutter- 
ing, "  Ten  poun'ss,  indeed !  Ten  poun'ss,  py 
damm ! " 

"  An'  didn't  ye  git  square  wi'  th'  bloke  wot  done 
ye  ?  "  asked  the  bo'sun. 

"  Oh,  iss  !     Iss,  indeed  !  "     John  brightened  up 


THE   'DEAD  HORSE'  53 

at  thought  of  it.  "  When  I  came  out  I  went  straight 
to  Great  Clyde  Street  an'  give  him  th'  best  hidin' 
he  effer  got,  I  tell  '00  !  I  took  ten  poun'ss  of  skin 
an'  hair  out  of  him  pefore  th'  police  came.  Fine  ! 
I  think  it  wass  fine,  an'  I  had  to  do  two  months 
for  that.  .  .  .  When  I  come  out  the  street  wass 
full  of  policemen,  indeed,  so  I  signed  in  this 
barque  an'  sold  my  advance  note  to  a  Jew  for 
ten  pob  ! " 

Ten  shillings  !  For  what,  if  the  discounter  saw 
to  it  that  his  man  went  to  sea,  was  worth  three 
pounds  when  the  ship  had  cleared  the  Channel ! 
On  the  other  hand,  Dan  Nairn,  a  Straits  of  Canso 
sailor-farmer  (mostly  farmer),  had  something  to 
say. 

"  Waall,  boy-ees,  they  ain't  awl  like  that,  I 
guess  !  I  came  acraus  caow-punchin'  on  a  Donald- 
s'n  cattle  boat,  an'  landed  in  Glasgow  with  damn 
all  but  a  stick  ov  chewin'  tebaccer  an'  two  dallars, 
Canad'n,  in  my  packet.  I  put  up  with  a  Scow- 
wegian  in  Centre  Street ;  a  stiff  good  feller  too  ! 
Guess  I  was  'baout  six  weeks  or  more  in  'is  'aouse, 
an'  he  give  me  a  tidy  lot  'er  fixin's — oilskins  an' 
sea-boots  an'  awl — out  'er  my  month's  advance." 

"  Oh,  some  is  good  and  some  ain't,"  said  Martin. 
"  Ah  knowed  a  feller  wot  'ad  an  'ard-up  boardin'- 


54  THE    BRASSBOUNDEK 

'ouse  in  Tiger  Bay.  Awl  th'  stiffs  in  Cardiff  use' 
ter  lay  back  on  'im  w'en  nobody  else  'ud  give  'em 
'ouse  room — hoodlums  and  Dagos  an'  Greeks  wot 
couldn't  get  a  ship  proper.  'E  'ad  rooms  in  'is 
'ouse  fitted  up  wi'  bunks  like  a  bloomin'  fo'cs'le, 
an'  'is  crowd  got  their  grub  sarved  out,  same's 
they  wos  at  sea.  Every  tide  time  'e  wos  down  at 
th'  pier-'ead  wi'  six  or  seven  of  'is  gang — 'ook-pots 
an'  pannikins,  an'  bed  an'  piller — waitin'  their 
chanst  ov  a  '  pier-'ead  jump.'  That  wos  th'  only 
way  'e  could  get  'is  men  away,  'cos  they  worn't 
proper  sailormen  as  c'd  go  aboard  a  packet  'n  ast 
for  a  sight  like  you  an'  me.  Most  of  'em  'ad  bad 
discharges  or  dead-'un's  papers  or  somethin'  ! 
'  Pier-'ead  jumps,'  they  wos,  an'  they  wouldn't 
never  'a'  got  a  ship,  only  f'r  that  feller  an'  'is  'ard- 
up  boardin'-'ouse." 

Martin  picked  up  his  precious  '  log  '  and  turned 
to  go  below.  "  Anyways,  good  or  bad,"  he  said, 
"  them  '  sharks  '  'as  got  my  ol'  iron  fer  the  last 
month,  an'  if  this  worn't  a  starvation  bloomin' 
Scotch  packet,  an'  a  crew  of  bloomin'  know-alls, 
fixing  me  with  a  fancy  curl  of  lip,  we'd  a  chanteycd 
th'  '  dead  'orse  '  aft  t'night  an'  ast  th'  01'  Man  t' 
splice  the  mainbrace." 

He  passed  into  the  forecastle,  and  through  the 


THE   'DEAD   HORSE'  55 

open  door  we  could  hear  him  sing  a  snatch  of  the 
'  dead  horse  '  chantey  : — 

"  But  now  lh'  month  is  up,  ol'  turk  J 
(An'  we  says  so,  an'  we  'opes  so.) 
Get  up,  ye  swine,  an'  look  fer  work  I 
(Oh  !    Poor — ol' — man .') 

" Get  up,  ye  swine,  an'  look  fer  graft! 
(An'  we  says  so,  an'  we  'opes  so.) 
While  we  lays  on  an'  yanks  ye  aft  t 
(Oh  I    Poor— ol'— man  1) ' ' 


'SEA  PRICE' 

AT  first  weak  and  baffling,  the  south-east  trades 
-  strengthened  and  blew  true  as  we  reached 
away  to  the  south'ard  under  all  sail.  Already  we 
had  forgotten  the  way  of  bad  weather.  It  seemed 
ages  since  we  had  last  tramped  the  weltering  decks, 
stamping  heavily  in  our  big  sea-boots  for  warmth, 
or  crouching  in  odd  corners  to  shelter  from  the 
driven  spray,  the  bitter  wind  and  rain.  Now  we 
were  fine-weather  voyagers — like  the  flying-fish 
and  the  albacore,  and  bonita,  that  leapt  the  sea 
we  sailed  in.  The  tranquil  days  went  by  in  busy 
sailor  work ;  we  spent  the  nights  in  a  sleepy  languor, 
in  semi- wakefulness.  In  watch  below  we  were 
assured  of  our  rest,  and  even  when  '  on  deck  ' — 
save  for  a  yawning  pull  at  sheet  or  halyard  when 
the  Mate  was  jealous  of  our  idling,  or  a  brief 
spell  at  wheel  or  look  out — were  at  liberty  to  seek 
out  a  soft  plank  and  lie  back,  gazing  up  at  the 

56 


'SEA   PRICE'  57 

gently  swaying  mastheads  till  sleep  came  again. 
Higher  and  higher,  as  the  days  went  by,  the  southern 
stars  rose  from  the  sea-line,  while — in  the  north — 
homely  constellations  dipped  and  were  lost  to  view. 
Night  by  night  we  had  the  same  true  breeze,  the 
sea  unchanged,  the  fleecy  trade  clouds  forming  on 
the  sea-line — to  fade  ere  they  had  reached  the  zenith. 
There  seemed  no  end  to  our  pleasured  progress  ! 
Ah,  it  is  good  to  be  alive  and  afloat  where  the 
trades  blow.    Down  south,  there  ! 

But,  in  spite  of  the  fine  weather  and  the  steady 
breeze,  there  were  signs  of  what  our  voyage  would  be 
when  the  '  barefoot  days '  were  done.  Out  beyond 
the  clear  sky  and  tender  clouds,  the  old  hands  saw 
the  wraith  of  the  rugged  Cape  that  we  had  yet  to 
weather.  The  impending  wrestle  with  the  rigours 
of  '  the  Horn '  sent  them  to  their  preparations 
when  we  had  scarce  crossed  the  Line.  Old  Martin 
was  the  fore  hand.  Now,  his  oilskins  hung  out 
over  the  head,  stretched  on  hoops  and  broomsticks, 
glistening  in  a  brave  new  coat  of  oil  and  blacking. 
Then  Vootgert  and  Dutch  John  took  the  notion, 
and  set  to  work  by  turns  at  a  canvas  wheel-coat 
that  was  to  defy  the  worst  gale  that  ever  blew. 
Young  Houston — canny  Shetlander — put  aside  his 
melodeon,  and  clicked  and  clicked  his  needles  at  a 


58  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

famous  pair  of  north-country  hose.  Welsh  John 
and  M'Innes — '  the  Celtic  twins  ' — clubbed  their 
total  outfit  and  were  busy  overhauling,  while  Bo'sun 
Hicks  spent  valuable  time  and  denied  us  his  yarns 
while  he  fortified  his  leaky  bunk  by  tar  and  strips 
of  canvas.  Even  Wee  Laughlin,  infected  by  the 
general  industry  of  the  forecastle,  was  stitching 
away  (long,  outward-bound  stitches)  at  a  cunning 
arrangement  of  trousers  that  would  enable  him  to 
draw  on  his  two  pairs  at  once.  All  had  some  pre- 
paration to  make — all  but  we  brassbounders  ! 

We  saw  no  farther  than  the  fine  weather  about 
us.  Most  had  been  '  round  the  Horn  '  before,  and 
we  should  have  known  ;  but  there  was  no  old 
'  steady-all '  to  ballast  our  cock-a-boat,  and  we 
scorned  the  wisdom  of  the  forecastle.  '  Good 
enough  t'  be  goin'  on  with,'  and  '  come  day,  go 
day  ' — were  our  mottoes  in  the  half-deck.  Time 
enough,  by  and  by,  when  the  weather  showed  a 
sign  !  We  had  work  enough  when  on  duty  to  keep 
us  healthy  !  Fine  days  and  '  watch  below  '  were 
meant  for  lazying — for  old  annuals  of  the  B.O.P., 
for  Dicks's  Standards,  for  the  Seaside  Library  ! 
Everyone  knows  that  the  short  dog-watches  were 
meant  for  sing-song  and  larking,  and,  perhaps,  a 
fight  or  two  !    What  did  we  care  if  Old  Martin  and 


'SEA    PRICE'  59 

his  mates  were  croak,  croak,  croakin'  about '  standin' 
by  '  and  settin'  th'  gear  handy  ?  We  were  '  hard 
cases,'  all  of  us,  even  young  Munro  and  Burke, 
the  '  nipper  '  of  the  starboard  watch  !  We  didn't 
care  !    We  could  stand  the  racket !    Huh  ! 

So  we  lazied  the  fine  days  away,  while  our  sea 
harness  lay  stiffening  in  the  dark  lockers. 

Subtly,  almost  imperceptibly,  the  weather 
changed.  There  was  a  chill  in  the  night  air ;  it 
was  no  longer  pleasant  to  sleep  on  deck.  The 
stars  were  as  bright,  the  sky  as  clear,  the  sea  as 
smooth  ;  but  when  the  sun  had  gone,  damp  vapours 
came  and  left  the  deck  chill  and  clammy  to  the 
touch.  .  .  .  '  Barefoot  days '  were  over  ! 

Still  and  all,  the  '  times '  were  good  enough. 
If  the  flying-fish  no  longer  swept  from  under  the 
bows  in  a  glistening  shoal,  the  trades  yet  served  us 
well.  The  days  drew  on.  The  day  when  we  shifted 
the  patched  and  threadbare  tropic  sails  and  bent 
our  stoutest  canvas  in  their  place ;  the  day  when 
Sann'y  Armstrong,  the  carpenter,  was  set  to  make 
strong  weatherboards  for  the  cabin  skylights  ;  the 
day — a  cloudy  day — when  the  spars  were  doubly 
lashed  and  all  spare  fittings  sent  below.  We  had 
our  warning  ;  there  were  signs,  a  plenty  ! 

All  too  soon  our  sunny  days  came  to  an  end.    The 


60  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

trades  petered  out  in  calms  and  squally  weather. 
Off  the  River  Plate  a  chill  wind  from  the  south 
set  us  to  '  tack  and  tack,'  and  when  the  wind  hauled 
and  let  us  free  to  our  course  again,  it  was  only  to 
run  her  into  a  gale  on  the  verge  of  the  '  Forties.' 
Then  for  three  days  we  lay  hove-to,  labouring 
among  heavy  seas. 

The  '  buster  '  fairly  took  our  breath  away.  The 
long  spell  of  light  winds  had  turned  us  unhandy 
for  storm  work.  The  swollen  ropes,  stiffened  in  the 
block-sheaves,  were  stubborn  when  we  hauled ; 
the  wet,  heavy  canvas  that  thrashed  at  us  when 
stowing  sail  proved  a  fighting  demon  that  called 
for  all  our  strength ;  the  never-ending  small  work 
in  a  swirl  of  lashing  water  found  us  slow  and 
laboured  at  the  task. 

All  this  was  quickly  noted  by  the  Mate,  and  he 
lost  no  time  in  putting  us  to  rights.  Service  in 
New  Bedford  whalers  had  taught  him  the  '  Yankee 
touch,'  and,  as  M'Innes  put  it,  he  was  '  no'  slow  ' 
with  his  big  hands. 

"  Lay  along  here,  sons,"  he  would  roar,  standing 
to  the  braces.  ..."  Lay  along,  sons  ; — ye  know 
what  sons  I  mean  !  .  .  .  Aft  here,  ye  lazy  hounds, 
and  see  me  make  '  sojers,'  sailors  ! !  " 

With  his  language  we  had  no  great  grievance. 


'SEA   PRICE'  61 

We  could  appreciate  a  man  who  said  things — sailor- 
like  and  above  board — but  when  it  came  to  knock- 
ing a  man  about  (just  because  he  was  '  goin'  t' 
get  his  oilskins,'  when  the  order  was  '  aloft,  an' 
furl ')  there  were  ugly  looks  here  and  there.  We 
had  our  drilling  while  the  gale  lasted,  and,  when  it 
cleared,  our  back  muscles  were  '  waking  up.' 

Now — with  moderate  weather  again — famous 
preparations  began  in  the  half-deck ;  everyone  of 
us  was  in  haste  to  put  his  weather  armour  to  rights. 
Oilskins,  damp  and  sticking,  were  dragged  from 
dark  corners.  "  Rotten  stuff,  anyway.  We'll  have 
no  more  of  Blank's  outfits,  after  this,"  we  said,  as 
we  pulled  and  pinched  them  apart.  "  Oh,  damn  ! 
I  forgot  about  that  stitchin'  on  the  leg  of  my  sea- 
boot,"  said  one.  "  Wish  I'd  had  time  t'  put  a  patch 
on  here,"  said  another,  ruefully  holding  out  his 
rubbers.  "  Too  far  gone  for  darning,"  said  Eccles. 
"  Here  goes,"  and  he  snipped  the  feet  part  from 
a  pair  of  stockings  and  tied  a  ropeyarn  at  the  cut ! 

We  were  jeered  at  from  the  forecastle.  Old 
Martin  went  about  clucking  in  his  beard.  At  every 
new  effort  on  our  part,  his  head  went  nod,  nod, 
nodding.  "  Oh,  them  brassbounders  !  "  he  would 
say.  "  Them  ruddy  '  know-alls  '  !  Wot  did  I  tell 
ye,  eh  ?    Wot  did  I  tell  'em,  w'en  we  was  a-crossin' 


62  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

th'  Line,  eh  ?  An'  them  's  th'  fellers  wot'll  be 
a-bossin'  of  you  an'  me,  bo'sun  !  Comin'  th' 
'  hard  case,'  like  the  big  feller  aft  there  !  " 

Martin  was  right,  and  we  felt  properly  humbled 
when  we  sneaked  forward  in  search  of  assistance. 
Happily,  in  Dan  Nairn  we  found  a  cunning  cobbler, 
and  for  a  token  in  sea  currency — a  plug  or  two  of 
hard  tobacco — he  patched  and  mended  our  boots. 
With  the  oilskins,  all  our  smoothing  and  pinching 
was  hopeless.  The  time  was  gone  when  we  could 
scrub  the  sticky  mess  off  and  put  a  fresh  coating 
of  oil  on  the  fabric. 

Ah  !  We  pulled  long  faces  now  and  thought  that, 
perhaps,  sing-song  and  larking,  and  Dicks's  Stan- 
dards and  the  Seaside  Library  are  not  good  value 
for  a  frozen  soaking  off  the  Horn  ! 

But  there  was  still  a  haven  to  which  we  careless 
mariners  could  put  in  and  refit.  The  Captain's 
'  slop  chest ' — a  general  store,  where  oilskins  were 
'  sea  priced  '  at  a  sovereign,  and  sea-boots  could  be 
had  for  thirty  shillings !  At  these  figures  they 
would  have  stood  till  they  crumbled  in  a  sailor- 
town  shop  window,  but  500  S.  is  a  world  away  from 
Broomielaw  Corner,  and  we  were  glad  enough  to  be 
served,  even  if  old  Niven,  the  steward,  did  pass 
off  old  stock  on  us. 


'SEA    PRICE'  63 

"  Naw  !  Ye'll  no'  get  ye'r  pick  !  Ye'll  jist  tak' 
whit  's  gien'  ye  ...  or  nane  ava'  !  " 

Wee  Laughlin  was  a  large  buyer.  He — of  us 
all — had  come  to  sea  '  same  's  he  was  goin'  t' 
church  ! '  A  pier-head  jump  !  So  far,  he  had 
borrowed  and  borrowed,  but  even  good-natured 
Dutch  John  was  learning  English,  and  would  say, 
"  Jou  come  to  mein  haus,  und  stay  mit  me,"  or 
"  Was  /iir  jou  nod  trink  less  und  buy  somet'ings," 
at  each  wily  approach. 

On  the  day  when  '  slops  '  were  served  out,  the 
Pride  of  Rue-en'  Street  was  first  at  the  cabin  door. 
As  he  was  fitted  and  stepped  along  forward  with 
his  purchases,  the  bo 'sun  saw  him,  and  called  : 
"  Hello  !  Oilskins  an'  sea-boots  an'  new  shirts, 
eh  ?  I  see  ye're  outward  bound,  young  feller  !  " 
Laughlin  leered  and  winked  cunning-like. 

"  What  d'ye  mean  by  outward  bound,"  asked 
Munro.    "  We're  all  outward  bound,  an't  we  ?  " 

"  Of  course  ;  of  course,"  said  Hicks.  "  All  out- 
ward bound  !  But  w'en  I  says  it  that  wye,  I 
mean  as  Lawklin  is  a-spendin'  of  'is  '  dibs,'  .  .  . 
meanin'  t'  desert  w'en  we  gets  out !  If  'e  don't 
'op  it  as  soon  as  we  anchors  in  'Frisco  Bay,  ye  kin 
call  me  a  ruddy  Dutchman  !  " 

"  Desert  ?     But  that's  serious  ?  " 


64  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Ho  no  !  Not  there  it  ain't  !  Desertin'  's  as 
easy  as  rollin'  off  a  log,  .  .  .  out  there  !  D'ye  think 
th'  queer-fella'  is  goin'  t'  pay  them  prices  for  'is 
kit,  if  'e  wos  goin'  t'  stop  by  her  in  'Frisco  ?  Not 
much  'e  ain't !  An'  ye  kin  tike  it  as  a  few  more 
is  goin'  t'  'op  it,  or  ye  wouldn't  see  so  many  of  'em 
aft  'ere  for  their  bloomin'  '  sundries  '  !  " 

"  Wei,  wel,  now  !  These  prices  is  not  pad,  in- 
deed," said  Welsh  John,  who  had  joined  us.  "I 
haf  paid  more  than  three  shillin'  for  a  knife  pefore  !  " 

"  Heh!  Heh!  "  The  bo'sun  laughed.  "  When  a 
'  Taffy  '  that's  a-buyin'  says  that,  ye  may  say  it's 
right !  .  .  .  But,  blimy — the  boot's  on  th'  other 
foot  w'en  it's  '  Taffy  '  as  is  a-sellin'  !  Heh  !  Heh  ! 
There  wos  Old  Man  Lewis  of  th'  Vanguard,  o'  Liver- 
pool, that  I  signed  in  !  Blimy !  'e  could  tell  ye 
wot  '  sea  price  '  is  !  " 

"  Good  ol'  '  sea  price,'  "  said  Martin.  "  Many 
an'  'appy  'ome,  an'  garden  wit'  a  flagstaff,  is  built 
o'  '  sea  price  ' !  " 

"  Right,  ol'  son  !  Right,"  continued  the  bo'sun. 
"  Old  Man  Lewis  owned  a  row  of  'em,  .  .  .  down 
in  Fishguard.  ...  I  sailed  in  th'  Vanguard  out 
o'  Liverpool  t'  Noo  York  an'  then  down  south,  'ere 
— boun'  t'  Callao.  Off  th'  Falklan's,  the  Old  Man 
opens  out  'is  bloomin'  slop-chest  an'  starts  dealin'. 


4 SEA    PRICE'  65 

A  pound  for  blankits  wot  ye  c'd  shoot  peas  through, 
an'  fifteen  bob  for  serge  shirts — same  kind  as  th' 
Sheenies  sells  a'  four  an'  tanner  in  th'  Mawrsh  ! 
Of  course,  nobody  'ud  buy  'em  in  at  that  price, 
though  we  wos  all  '  parish  rigged  ' — us  bein'  'bout 
eight  months  out  from  'ome.  If  we  'ad  been  in- 
tendin'  t'  leave  'er,  like  th'  queer-fella,  there,  it 
'ud  a  bin  all  right,  but  we  'ad  'bout  twenty-five 
poun'  doo  each  of  us,  an'  we  wasn't  keen  on  makin' 
th'  Old  Man  a  n'ansome  presint !  " 

"  How  could  he  get  that  ?  " 

"  'Ow  could  'e  get  it  ?  Easy  'miff,  in  them  days  ! 
As  soon  as  we  'ad  a  bin  over  th'  rail,  'e  'ud  'ave 
us  down  in  'is  bloomin'  book — slops  supplied — five 
pun'  'ere — six  pun'  there — an'  so  on  !  .  .  .  Well,  I 
was  sayin'  as  we  was  goin'  south,  round  th'  'Orn  ! 
Winter  time  it  was — an'  cold  !  Cruel !  Ye  couldn't 
tell  who  ye'r  feet  belonged  to  till  ye  'ad  ye'r  boots 
off.  West  an'  sou'-west  gales,  'ard  runnin',  .  .  . 
an'  there  we  wos,  away  t'  hell  an'  gone  south'  o' 
th'  reg'lar  track  ! 

"  I  wos  at  the  wheel  one  day,  an'  I  'eard  th' 
Old  Man  an'  th'  Mate  confabbin'  'bout  th'  ship's 
position. 

"  '  Fifty-nine,  forty,  south,'  says  th'  Mate.  '  Ant- 
arctic bloody  exploration,  I  call  this  !  '  .  .  .  'E  was 

F 


66  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

frappin'  'is  'an's  like  a  Fenchurch  cabby.  .  .  .  '  It's 
'bout  time  ye  wos  goin'  round,  Capt'n  !  She'd  fetch 
round  '  Cape  Stiff '  with  a  true  west  wind  !  She'll 
be  in  among  th'  ice  soon,  if  ye  don't  alter  th' 
course  !  Time  we  was  gettin'  out  o'  this,'  says  he, 
'  with  two  of  th'  han's  frost-bit  an'  th'  rest  of  us 
'bout  perishin'  !  ' 

"  '  Oh  no,'  says  old  Lewis.  '  No,  indeed  !  Don't 
you  make  any  mistike,  Mister  !  South's  th'  course, 
.  .  .  south  till  I  sells  them  fine  blankits  an'  warm 
shirts  I  < " 


VI 

ROUNDING  THE   HORN 

"T)OUNDING    Cape    Horn    from   the   eastward, 

-*-^-  setting  to  the  teeth  of  the  great  west  wind, 

to  the  shock  and  onset  of  towering  seas  ;    furious 

combination  of  the  elements  that  sweep  unchecked 

around  the  globe  ! 

Days  passed,  and  we  fared  no  farther  on.  North 
we  would  go  with  the  yards  hard  on  the  back- 
stays ;  to  wear  ship,  and  steer  again  south  over 
the  same  track.  Hopeless  work  it  was,  and  only 
the  prospect  of  a  slant — a  shift  of  wind  that 
would  let  us  to  our  journey — kept  us  hammering 
doggedly  at  the  task. 

Day  after  day  of  huge  sea  and  swell,  mountainous 
in  calm  or  storm.  Leaden-grey  skies,  with  a  brief 
glint  of  sunshine  now  and  then — for  it  was  nominally 
summer  time  in  low  latitudes.  Days  of  gloomy  calm, 
presage  of  a  fiercer  blow,  when  the  Old  Man  (Orca- 
dian philosopher  that  he  was)  caught  and  skilfully 

67 


68  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

stuffed  the  great-winged  albatross  that  flounders 
helplessly  when  the  wind  fails.  Days  of  strong 
breezes,  when  we  tried  to  beat  to  windward  under 
a  straining  main-to'gal'nsail ;  ever  a  west  wind 
to  thwart  our  best  endeavours,  and  week-long 
gales,  that  we  rode  out,  hove-to  in  the  trough  of 
overwhelming  seas,  lurching  to  leeward  under  low 
canvas. 

,We  had  become  sailors  in  earnest.  We  had  for- 
gotten the  way  of  steady  trades  and  flying-fish 
weather,  and,  when  the  wind  howled  a  whole  gale, 
we  slapped  our  oilskin-clad  thighs  and  lied  cheer- 
fully to  each  other  of  greater  gales  we  had  been  in. 
Even  Wee  Laughlin  and  M'Innes  were  turned  to 
some  account  and  talked  of  sail  and  spars  as  if 
they  had  never  known  the  reek  of  steamer  smoke. 
In  the  half-deck  we  had  little  comfort  during  watch 
below.  At  every  lurch  of  the  staggering  barque,  a 
flood  of  water  poured  through  the  crazy  planking, 
and  often  we  were  washed  out  by  an  untimely 
opening  of  the  door.  Though  at  heart  we  would 
rather  have  been  porters  at  a  country  railway 
station,  we  put  a  bold  front  to  the  hard  times 
and  slept  with  our  wet  clothes  under  us  that  they 
might  be  the  less  chilly  for  putting  on  at  eight 
bells.     We  had  seldom  a  stitch  of  dry  clothing, 


ROUNDING   THE    HORN         69 

and  the  galley  looked  like  a  corner  of  Paddy's 
market  whenever  McEwan,  the  '  gallus '  cook, 
took  pity  on  our  sodden  misery. 

In  the  forecastle  the  men  were  better  off.  Collins 
had  rigged  an  affair  of  pipes  to  draw  the  smoke 
away,  and  it  was  possible,  in  all  but  the  worst  of 
weather,  to  keep  the  bogie-stove  alight.  We  would 
gladly  have  shifted  to  these  warmer  quarters,  but 
our  parents  had  paid  a  premium  for  privileged 
berthing,  and  the  Old  Man  would  not  hear  of  our 
flitting.  Happily,  we  had  little  darkness  to  add 
to  the  misery  of  our  passage,  for  the  sun  was  far 
south,  and  we  had  only  three  hours  of  night. 
Yet,  when  the  black  squalls  of  snow  and  sleet 
rolled  up  from  the  westward,  there  was  darkness 
enough.  At  times  a  flaw  in  the  wind — a  brief 
veering  to  the  south — would  let  us  keep  the  ship 
travelling  to  the  westward.  All  hands  would  be 
in  high  spirits ;  we  would  go  below  at  the  end  of 
our  watches,  making  light  of  sodden  bedclothes, 
heartened  that  at  last  our  '  slant '  had  come. 
Alas  for  our  hopes  !  Before  our  watch  was  due 
we  would  be  rudely  wakened.  "  All  hands  wear 
ship  " — the  dreaded  call,  and  the  Mate  thundering 
at  the  half-deck  door,  shouting  orders  in  a  threaten- 
ing tone  that  called  for  instant  spur.    Then,  at  the 


70  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

braces,  hanging  to  the  ropes  in  a  swirl  of  icy  water, 
facing  up  to  the  driving  sleet  and  bitter  spray, 
that  cut  and  stung  like  a  whiplash.  And  when  at 
last  the  yards  were  laid  to  the  wind,  and  the 
order  '  down  helm '  was  given,  we  would  spring  to 
the  rigging  for  safety,  and,  clinging  desperately, 
watch  the  furious  sweep  of  a  towering  '  greybeard  ' 
over  the  barque,  as  she  came  to  the  wind  and 
lay-to. 

Wild,  heart-breaking  work !  Only  the  old  hands, 
'  hard  cases '  like  Martin  and  Welsh  John  and  the 
bo'sun,  were  the  stoics,  and  there  was  some  small 
comfort  in  their  "  Whoo  !  This  ain't  nuthin' ! 
Ye  sh'd  a'  bin  shipmates  with  me  in  the  ol'  Bory- 
allus !  "  (Or  some  such  ancient  craft.)  "  Them  wos 
'ard  times  !  " 

Twice  we  saw  Diego  Ramirez  and  the  Ilede- 
fonsos,  with  an  interval  of  a  fortnight  between  the 
sightings — a  cluster  of  bleak  rocks,  standing  out 
of  surf  and  broken  water,  taking  the  relentless 
battery  of  huge  seas  that  swept  them  from  base 
to  summit.  Once,  in  clear  weather,  we  marked  a 
blue  ridge  of  land  far  to  the  norrard,  and  Old 
Martin  and  Vootgert  nearly  came  to  blows  as  to 
whether  it  was  Cape  Horn  or  the  False  Cape. 

Fighting  hard  for  every  inch  of  our  laboured 


ROUNDING   THE   HORN  71 

progress,  doubling  back,  crossing,  recrossing  (our 
track  on  the  old  blue-back  chart  was  a  maze  of 
lines  and  figures)  we  won  our  way  to  700  W.,  and 
there,  in  the  hardest  gale  of  the  passage,  we  were 
called  on  for  tribute,  for  one  more  to  the  toll  of 
sailor  lives  claimed  by  the  rugged  southern  gate- 
man. 

All  day  the  black  ragged  clouds  had  swept  up 
from  the  south-west,  the  wind  and  sea  had  in- 
creased hourly  in  violence.  At  dusk  we  had  short- 
ened sail  to  topsails  and  reefed  foresail.  But  the 
Old  Man  hung  on  to  his  canvas  as  the  southing 
wind  allowed  us  to  go  '  full  and  by  '  to  the  nor'- 
west.  Hurtling  seas  swept  the  decks,  tearing  stout 
fittings  from  their  lashings.  The  crazy  old  half- 
deck  seemed  about  to  fetch  loose  with  every  sea 
that  crashed  aboard.  From  stem  to  stern  there 
was  no  shelter  from  the  growing  fury  of  the  gale  ; 
but  still  the  Old  Man  held  to  his  course  to  make 
the  most  of  the  only  proper  '  slant '  in  six  weary 
weeks. 

At  midnight  the  wind  was  howling  slaughter, 
and  stout  Old  Jock,  dismayed  at  last  at  the  furious 
sea  upreared  against  him,  was  at  last  forced  to  lay 
her  to.  In  a  piping  squall  of  snow  and  sleet  we  set 
to  haul  up  the  foresail.    Even  the  nigger  could  not 


72  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

find  heart  to  rouse  more  than  a  mournful  % — o — ho 
at  the  buntlines,  as  we  slowly  dragged  the  heavy 
slatting  canvas  to  the  yard.  Intent  on  the  work, 
we  had  no  eye  to  the  weather,  and  only  the  Captain 
and  steersman  saw  the  sweep  of  a  monster 
sea  that  bore  down  on  us,  white-crested  and 
curling. 

"Stand  by,"  yelled  the  Old  Man.  "Hang 
on,  for  your  lives,  men !  Christ !  Hold  hard 
there  !  " 

Underfoot  we  felt  the  ship  falter  in  swing — an 
ominous  check  in  her  lift  to  the  heaving  sea.  Then 
out  of  the  blackness  to  windward  a  swift  towering 
crest  reared  up — a  high  wall  of  moving  water, 
winged  with  leagues  of  tempest  at  its  back.  It 
struck  us  sheer  on  the  broadside,  and  shattered 
its  bulk  aboard  in  a  whelming  torrent,  brimming 
the  decks  with  a  weight  that  left  no  life  in  the 
labouring  barque.  We  were  swept  to  leeward  at 
the  first  shock,  a  huddled  mass  of  writhing  figures, 
and  dashed  to  and  fro  with  the  sweep  of  the  sea. 
Gradually,  as  the  water  cleared,  we  came  by  foot- 
hold again,  sorely  bruised  and  battered. 

"  Haul  away  again,  men  !  "  The  Mate,  clearing 
the  blood  of  a  head  wound  from  his  eyes,  was  again 
at   the   foretack   giving   slack.     "  Hell  !   what  ye 


ROUNDING   THE   HORN         73 

standing  at  ?  Haul  away,  blast  ye  !  Haul  an' 
rouse  her  up  !  " 

Half-handed,  we  strained  to  raise  the  thundering 
canvas ;  the  rest,  with  the  Second  Mate,  were 
labouring  at  the  spare  spar,  under  which  Houston, 
an  ordinary  seaman,  lay  jammed  with  his  thigh 
broken.  Pinching  with  handspikes,  they  got  him 
out  and  carried  aft,  and  joined  us  at  the  gear ; 
and  at  last  the  sail  was  hauled  up.  "  Aloft  and 
furl,"  was  the  next  order,  and  we  sprang  to  the 
rigging  in  time  to  escape  a  second  thundering  '  grey- 
beard.' 

It  was  dark,  with  a  black  squall  making  up  to 
windward,  as  we  laid  out  on  the  yard  and  grappled 
with  the  wet  and  heavy  canvas.  Once  we  had 
the  sail  up,  but  the  wind  that  burst  on  us  tore  it 
from  our  stiffened  fingers.  Near  me  a  grown  man 
cried  with  the  pain  of  a  finger-nail  torn  from  the 
flesh.  We  rested  a  moment  before  bending  anew 
to  the  task. 

"  Handy  now,  laads !  "  the  Second  Mate  at 
the  bunt  was  roaring  down  the  wind.  "  Stick  t' 
it,  ma  herts,  .  .  .  hold  aal,  now  !  .  .  .  Damn  ye,  hold 
it,  you.  Ye  haandless  sojer  !  .  .  .  Up,  m'  sons ;  up 
an'  hold  aal." 

Cursing  the  stubborn  folds,  swaying  dizzily  on 


74  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  slippery  footropes,  shouting  for  hold  and 
gasket,  we  fought  the  struggling  wind-possessed 
monster,  and  again  the  leach  was  passed  along 
the  yard.  A  turn  of  the  gasket  would  have  held  it, 
but  even  the  leading  hands  at  the  bunt  were  as 
weak  and  breathless  as  ourselves.  The  squall  caught 
at  an  open  lug,  and  again  the  sail  bellied  out, 
thrashing  fiendishly  over  the  yard. 

There  was  a  low  but  distinct  cry,  "  Oh,  Christ !  " 
from  the  quarter,  and  MTnnes,  clutching  wildly, 
passed  into  the  blackness  below.  For  a  moment  all 
hands  clung  desperately  to  the  jackstay,  fending 
the  thrashing  sail  with  bent  heads ;  then  some  of 
the  bolder  spirits  made  to  come  off  the  yard.  .  .  . 
"  The  starboard  boat  .  .  .  .Who  ?  .  .  .  Duncan  .  .  . 
It's  Duncan  gone.  .  .  .  Quick  there,  the  star  .  »  . 
the  lashings  !  " 

The  Second  Mate  checked  their  movement. 

"  No  !  No  !  Back,  ye  fools  !  Back,  I  say !  Man 
canna'  help  Duncan  now !  " 

He  stood  on  the  truss  of  the  yard,  grasping  the 
stay,  and  swung  his  heavy  sea-boot  menacingly. 

"  Back,  I  say !  Back,  an'  furl  the  sail,  ...  if 
ye  wouldna'  follow  Duncan  !  " 

Slowly  we  laid  out  the  yard  again,  and  set 
sullenly  to  master  Duncan's  murderer. 


ROUNDING   THE   HORN          75 

A  lull  came.  We  clutched  and  pounded  at  the 
board-like  cloths,  dug  with  hooked  fingers  to  make 
a  crease  for  handhold,  and  at  last  turned  the  sail 
to  the  yard,  though  lubberly  and  ill-furled. 

One  by  one,  as  our  bit  was  secured,  we  straggled 
down  the  rigging.  Some  of  the  hands  were  aft 
on  the  lee  side  of  the  poop,  staring  into  the  darkness 
astern — where  Duncan  was.  Munro,  utterly  un- 
manned, was  crying  hysterically.  In  his  father's 
country  manse,  he  had  known  nothing  more  bitter 
than  the  death  of  a  favourite  collie.  Now  he  was 
at  sea,  and  by  his  side  a  man  muttered,  "  Dead  ? — 
My  God,  I  hope  he's  dead,  .  .  .  out  there  !  " 

The  Old  Man  crossed  over  from  the  weather  side, 
and  addressing  the  men,  said  :  "  The  Second  Mate 
tells  me  ye  wanted  t'  get  t'  th'  boat  when  M'Innes 
....  went.  .  .  .  I'm  pleased  that  ye've  that  much 
guts  in  ye,  but  I  could  risk  no  boat's  crew  in  a  sea 
like  this.  .  .  .  Besides,  I'm  more-all}'  certain  that 
M'Innes  was  dead  before  he  took  the  water.  Eh, 
Mister  ?  " 

"  Aye  .  .  .  dead,"  said  the  Mate.  "  I  saw  him 
strike  the  to'gal'nt  rail,  and  no  man  could  live 
after  a  blow  like  that.    Dead,  sure  !  " 

Old  Jock  returned  to  his  post  under  the  weather- 
cloth,  and  the  Mate  ordered  the  watch  below. 


% 

76  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

So  Duncan  took  his  discharge,  and  a  few  days 
later,  in  clearing  weather,  his  few  belongings  were 
sold  at  the  mast.  It  was  known  that  he  wasn't 
married,  but  Welsh  John,  who  knew  him  best, 
said  he  had  spoken  of  his  mother  in  Skye ;  and 
the  Old  Man  kept  a  few  letters  and  his  watch  that 
he  might  have  something  besides  his  money  to 
send  to  Duncan's  relatives. 

As  if  Duncan  had  paid  our  toll  for  rounding  the 
storm-scarred  Cape,  the  weather  cleared  and  winds 
set  fair  to  us  after  that  last  dread  night  of  storm. 
Under  a  press  of  canvas  we  put  her  head  to  the 
norrard,  and  soon  left  the  Horn  and  the  '  Roaring 
Forties '  astern. 


One  night,  in  the  middle  watch,  when  we  had 
nearly  run  out  the  south-east  trades,  I  went 
forward,  looking  for  someone  to  talk  to,  or  any- 
thing to  relieve  the  tedium  of  my  two  hours  on 
the  lee  side  of  the  poop.  I  found  Welsh  John  sitting 
on  the  main-hatch  and  disposed  to  yarn.  He  had 
been  the  most  intimate  with  Duncan,  harkening  to 
his  queer  tales  of  the  fairies  in  Knoidart  when  we 
others  would  scoff,  and  naturally  the  talk  came 
round  to  our  lost  shipmate. 


ROUNDING   THE   HORN         77 

It  was  bright  moonlight,  and  the  shadow  of 
sails  and  rigging  was  cast  over  the  deck.  Near  us, 
in  the  lee  of  the  house,  some  sleepers  lay  stretched. 
The  Mate  stepped  drowsily  fore  and  aft  the  poop, 
now  and  then  squinting  up  at  the  royals. 

"  I  wonder  what  brought  Duncan  to  a  wind- 
jammer," I  said.  "  He  was  too  old  to  be  starting 
the  sea,  an'  there  were  plenty  of  jobs  on  the  river 
for  a  well-doin'  man  like  him." 

Welsh  John  spat  carefully  on  the  deck,  and,  after 
looking  round,  said,  "  Tuncan  was  here,  indeed, 
because  he  thought  the  police  would  bother  him. 
He  told  me  he  wass  in  a  small  steamboat  that  runs 
from  Loch  Fyne  to  the  Clyde,  an'  the  skipper  was 
a  man  from  Killigan  or  Kalligan,  near  Tuncan's 
place." 

"  Kyle-akin,"  I  suggested. 

"  That  iss  it,  Kyle-akin  ;  an'  he  was  very  far  in 
drink.  They  started  from  Inverary  for  the  river, 
and  it  wass  plowin'  strong  from  the  south-east, 
an'  the  small  boat  wass  makin'  very  bad  weather, 
indeed.  The  skipper  wass  very  trunk,  an'  Tuncan, 
who  wass  steerin',  said  they  should  put  in  to  shelter 
for  the  night.  But  the  skipper  wass  quarrelsome, 
an'  called  Tuncan  a  coward  an'  a  nameless  man 
from  Skye,  an'  they  came  to  plows.     Tuncan  let 


% 


78  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 


go  the  tiller,  an'  the  small  boat  came  broadside 
on,  and  shipped  a  big  sea,  an'  when  Tuncan  got 
to  the  tiller  an'  put  it  up,  the  skipper  was  gone. 
They  never  saw  him,  so  they  came  on  to  the 
Clyde,  where  Tuncan  left  the  poat.  An'  they 
were  askin'  questions  from  him,  an'  Tuncan 
was  afraid ;  but  indeed  to  goodness  he  had  no 
need  to  pe.  So  he  shipped  with  us — a  pier-head 
jump  it  wass.  ..." 

A  sleeper  stirred  uneasily,  rolled  over,  and  cursed 
us  for  a  pair  of  chatterin'  lawyers. 

We  were  both  quiet  for  a  moment  or  two  ;  then 
the  strident  voice  of  the  Mate  rang  out,  "  Boy  ! 
Boy  !  Where  the  hell  have  you  got  to  now  ?  Lay 
aft  and  trim  the  binnacle  !  " 

I  mounted  the  poop  ladder,  muttering  the  usual 
excuse  about  having  been  to  see  the  side-lights.  I 
trimmed  the  lamps,  and  as  it  was  then  a  quarter  to 
four,  struck  one  bell  and  called  the  watch.  As  I 
waited  on  the  poop  to  strike  the  hour,  the  men 
were  turning  out  forward,  and  I  could  hear  the 
voice  of  the  eldest  apprentice  chiding  the  laggards 
in  the  half-deck.  I  thought  of  Duncan,  and  of 
what  Welsh  John  had  told  me. 

"  Aye,  aye,  that  was  Duncan.  That  was  the 
way  of  it.    I  always  wond " 


ROUNDING   THE    HORN         79 

Cla  —  clang  —  Cla  —  clang  —  Cla  —  clang  — 
Cla — clang. 

The  Mate,  anxious  to  get  his  head  on  pillow, 
had  flogged  the  clock  and  had  struck  eight  bells 
himself. 


VII 

A   HOT  CARGO 

OHOREFOLK  can  have  but  a  hazy  idea  of  all 
^-^  that  it  means  to  the  deep-water  sailor  when 
at  last,  after  long  voyaging,  the  port  of  his  destina- 
tion heaves  in  sight.  For  months  he  has  been 
penned  up  on  shipboard,  the  subject  of  a  discipline 
more  strict  than  that  in  any  way  of  life  ashore.  The 
food,  poor  in  quality,  and  of  meagre  allowance  at 
the  best,  has  become  doubly  distasteful  to  him. 
The  fresh  water  has  nearly  run  out,  and  the  red 
rusty  sediment  of  the  tank  bottoms  has  a  nauseating 
effect  and  does  little  to  assuage  the  thirst  engendered 
by  salt  rations.  Shipmates  have  told  and  retold 
their  yarns,  discussions  now  verge  perilously  on  a 
turn  of  fisticuffs.  He  is  wearying  of  sea  life,  is 
longing  for  a  change,  for  a  break  in  the  monotony 
of  day's  work  and  watch-keeping,  of  watch-keeping 
and  day's  work. 
A  welcome  reaction  comes  on  the  day  when  he  is 
80 


A   HOT   CARGO  81 

ordered  to  put  the  harbour  gear  in  readiness. 
Generally  he  has  only  a  hazy  notion  of  the  ship's 
position  (it  is  sea  fashion  to  keep  that  an  Officers' 
secret),  and  the  rousing  up  of  the  long  idle  anchor 
chains  and  tackle  is  his  first  intimation  that  the 
land  is  near,  that  any  day  may  now  bring  the  shore 
to  view,  that  soon  he  will  be  kicking  his  heels  in  a 
sailor-town  tavern,  washing  off  his  '  salt  casing  ' 
with  lashings  of  the  right  stuff. 

This  was  in  part  our  case  when  we  were  a  hundred 
and  forty  days  out  from  the  Clyde.  The  food  was 
bad  and  short  allowance  ;  the  key  of  the  pump 
was  strictly  guarded,  but  we  had  excitement  enough 
and  to  spare,  for,  six  days  before  our  '  landfall,' 
the  bo'sun  discovered  fire  in  the  fore-hold  that  had 
evidently  been  smouldering  for  some  time,  was 
deep-seated,  and  had  secured  a  firm  hold. 

It  was  difficult  to  get  at  the  fire  on  account  of  the 
small  hatchway,  and  notwithstanding  the  laboured 
efforts  of  all  hands,  we  were  at  last  obliged  to  batten 
the  hatches  down  and  to  trust  to  a  lucky  '  slant ' 
to  put  us  within  hail  of  assistance.  The  water 
which  we  had  so  fruitlessly  poured  below  had  all 
to  be  pumped  out  again  to  get  the  ship  in  sailing 
trim  ;  and  heart-breaking  work  it  was,  with  the 
wheezy  old  pump  sucking  every  time  the  ship 
c 


82  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

careened  to  leeward.  Anxiety  showed  on  all  faces, 
and  it  was  with  great  relief  that,  one  day  at  noon, 
we  watched  the  Mate  nailing  a  silver  dollar  to  the 
mizzenmast.  The  dollar  was  his  who  should  first 
sight  the  distant  shore. 

We  held  a  leading  wind  from  the  norrard,  and 
when,  on  the  afternoon  of  a  bright  day,  we  heard 
the  glad  shout  from  the  fore-tops'l  yard — "  Land- 
oh  " — we  put  a  hustle  on  our  movements,  and,  light 
at  heart,  found  excuse  to  lay  aloft  to  have  a  far- 
away look  at  God's  good  earth  again.  It  was  the 
Farallone  Islands  we  had  made — thirty  miles  west 
from  the  Golden  Gate — a  good  landfall.  Dutch 
John  was  the  lucky  man  to  see  it  first,  and  we  gave 
him  a  cheer  as  he  laid  aft  to  take  the  dollar  off 
the  mast. 

In  the  second  dog-watch  we  hung  about  the 
decks  discussing  prospective  doings  when  we  set 
foot  ashore,  and  those  who  had  been  in  'Frisco 
before  formed  centres  of  inquiry  and  importance. 
From  the  bearing  of  the  land,  we  expected  orders 
to  check  in  the  yards,  but,  greatly  to  our  surprise, 
the  Mate  ordered  us  to  the  lee  fore-brace,  and  seemed 
to  be  unable  to  get  the  yards  far  enough  forrard 
to  please  him.  When  Wee  Laughlin  came  from  the 
wheel  at  eight  bells,  we  learned  that  the  ship  was 


A    HOT   CARGO  83 

now  heading  to  the  nor'east,  and  away  from  our 
port ;  and  the  old  hands,  with  many  shakings  of 
the  head,  maintained  that  some  tricky  game  was 
afoot.  The  Old  Man  and  the  Mate  were  colloguing 
earnestly  at  the  break  of  the  poop ;  and  Jones, 
who  went  aft  on  a  pretence  of  trimming  the  binnacle, 
reported  that  the  Old  Man  was  expressing  heated 
opinions  on  the  iniquity  of  salvage.  At  midnight 
we  squared  away,  but  as  we  approached  the  land 
the  wind  fell  light  and  hauled  ahead.  Wonder  of 
wonders  !  This  seemed  to  please  the  Captain  hugely, 
and  his  face  beamed  like  a  nor'west  moon  every 
time  he  peered  into  the  compass. 

Dawn  found  us  well  to  the  norrard  of  the  islands, 
and  close-hauled,  standing  into  the  land.  From 
break  of  day  all  hands  were  busy  getting  the  anchors 
cleared  and  the  cables  ranged.  Some  were  engaged 
painting  out  the  rusty  bits  on  the  starboard  top- 
side. A  '  work-up '  job  they  thought  it  was  until 
the  Mate  ordered  them  to  leave  the  stages  hanging 
over  the  water  abreast  of  the  fore-hatch.  Here  the 
iron  plating  was  hot,  the  paint  was  blistered  off, 
and  every  time  the  ship  heeled  over  there  was  an 
unmistakable  sssh  as  the  water  lapped  the  heated 
side.  This,  and  the  smell  of  hot  iron,  was  all  that 
there  was  to  tell  of  our  smouldering  coal  below, 


84  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

but  'Frisco  men  from  the  Water  Front  are  sharp 
as  ferrets,  and  very  little  would  give  them  an 
inkling  of  the  state  of  affairs.  Presently  we  raised 
the  land  broad  on  the  port  bow,  and  two  of  us  were 
perched  on  the  fore-to'gal'nt  yard  to  look  out  for 
the  pilot  schooner ;  or,  if  luck  was  in  our  way,  a 
tow-boat.  The  land  became  more  distinct  as  the 
day  wore  on,  and  the  bearing  of  several  conspicuous 
hills  gave  the  Captain  the  position  he  sought. 
Before  noon  we  reported  smoke  ahead,  and  the 
Mate,  coming  aloft  with  his  telescope,  made  out  the 
stranger  to  be  a  tow-boat,  and  heading  for  us.  We 
were  called  down  from  aloft,  and  the  ship  was  put 
about. 

We  were  now,  for  the  second  time,  heading  away 
from  our  port ;  and  when  the  Mate  set  us  to  slap 
the  paint  on  the  burned  patch,  we  understood  the 
Old  Man's  manoeuvre,  which  had  the  object  of 
preventing  the  tow-boat  from  rounding  to  on  our 
starboard  side.  Her  skipper  would  there  have 
assuredly  seen  evidences  of  our  plight,  and  would 
not  have  been  slow  to  take  advantage  of  it. 

The  tug  neared  us  rapidly  (they  lose  no  time  on 
the  Pacific  slope),  and  the  Captain  recognised  her 
as  the  Active. 

"  She's  one  of  Spreckel's  boats,"  said  he,  shutting 


A   HOT   CARGO  85 

his  glass.  "  Cutbush  runs  her,  an'  he's  a  dead 
wide  ane.  If  he  smells  a  rat,  Mister,  we'll  be 
damned  lucky  if  we  get  into  harbour  under  a  couple 
0'  thousand." 

We  were  all  excited  at  the  game,  though  it 
mattered  little  to  us  what  our  owners  paid,  as  long 
as  we  got  out  of  our  hot  corner.  Straight  for  us 
he  came,  and  when  he  rounded  our  stern  and 
lay  up  on  the  lee  quarter,  the  bo'sun  voiced  the 
general  opinion  that  the  Old  Man  had  done  the 
trick. 

"  Morn,  Cap.  !  Guess  ye've  bin  a  long  time  on 
th'  road,"  sang  out  the  tow-boat's  skipper,  eyeing 
our  rusty  side  and  grassy  counter. 

"  Head  winds,"  said  the  Old  Man,  "  head  winds, 
an'  no  luck  this  side  o'  th'  Horn." 

"  Ye're  a  long  way  to  th'  norrard,  Cap.  Bin 
bavin'  thick  weather  outside  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  what  ye  might  call  thick,  but  musty, 
these  last  few  days.  We  were  lookin'  to  pick  up 
the  Farallones."    (The  unblushing  old  Ananias  !) 

There  ensued  a  conversation  about  winds  and 
weather,  ships  and  freights,  interspersed  with  the 
news  of  five  months  back.  The  talk  went  on, 
and  neither  seemed  inclined  to  get  to  business.  At 
last  the  tow-boat  man  broke  the  ice. 


86  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Wall,  Cap.,  I  reckon  ye  don't  want  t'  stay  here 
all  day.  Wind's  easterly  inside,  an'  there  ain't  none 
too  much  water  on  th'  bar.  Ye'd  better  give  us 
yer  hawser  'n  let's  git  right  along." 

"  Oh !  no  hurry,  Capt'in ;  there's  no  hurry. 
What's  a  day  here  or  there  when  ye'r  well  over  the 
hundreds  ?  I  can  lay  up  to  th'  pilot  ground  on  th' 
next  tack.  .  .  .  Ye'll  be  wantin'  a  big  figure  from 
here,  an'  my  owners  won't  stand  a  long  pull." 

"  Only  six  hundred,  Cap.,  only  six  hundred,  with 
your  hawser." 

The  Old  Man  started  back  in  amazement. 

"  Six  hundred  dollars,  Capt'in.  Did  you  say  six 
hundred  ?  Holy  smoke  !  I  don't  want  t'  buy  yer 
boat,  Capt'in.  .  .  .  Six  hundred — well,  I'm  damned. 
Loose  them  royals,  Mister  !  Six  hundred,  no  damn 
fear !  " 

Quickly  we  put  the  royals  on  her,  though  they 
were  little  use,  the  wind  having  fallen  very  light. 
The  tow-boat  sheered  off  a  bit,  and  her  skipper 
watched  us  sheeting-home,  as  if  it  were  a  most 
interesting  and  uncommon  sight. 

He  gave  his  wheel  a  spoke  or  two  and  came 
alongside  again. 

"  All  right,  Cap.  Give  us  yer  hawser  'n  I'll  dock 
ye  for  five-fifty  1  " 


A    HOT   CARGO  87 

The  Old  Man  paid  no  attention  to  his  request, 
but  paced  fore  and  aft  the  weather  side,  gazing 
occasionally  at  the  lazy  royals,  then  fixing  the 
man  at  the  wheel  with  a  reproachful  eye.  At 
last  he  turned  to  leeward  with  a  surprised  ex- 
pression, as  if  astonished  to  find  the  tow-boat 
still  there. 

"  Come,  Cap.  !  Strike  it  right  naow  !  What 
d'ye  offer  ?  Mind  the  wind,  as  there  is  ov  it,  is 
due  east  in  the  Strait." 

The  Old  Man  thought  carefully  for  quite  a  time. 
"  Hundred  'n  fifty,  'n  your  hawser,"  he  said. 

The  Captain  of  the  Active  jammed  his  telegraph 
at  full  speed  ahead. 

"  Good  morn',  Cap.,"  he  said.  "  Guess  I'll  see 
ye  in  'Frisco  this  side  o'  the  Noo  Year."  He  forged 
rapidly  ahead,  and  when  clear  of  the  bows  took 
a  long  turn  to  seaward.  The  Mate  took  advantage 
of  his  being  away  and  wiped  off  the  paint  on  the 
burned  patch,  which  was  beginning  to  smell  abomin- 
ably. Fresh  paint  was  hurriedly  put  on,  and  the 
stages  were  again  aboard  when  the  Active,  finding 
nothing  to  interest  her  on  the  western  horizon,  re- 
turned— again  to  the  lee  quarter. 

"  Saay,  Cap.,  kan't  we  do  a  deal ;  kan't  we 
meet    somewhere  ?  "    said    Cutbush,    conciliatory. 


88  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Say  five  hundred  or  four-eighty,  'n  I'll  toss  ye 
for  th'  hawser  ?  " 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Capt'in.  ...  I'd  lose  my  job 
if  I  went,"  (here  the  Old  Man  paused  to  damn  the 
steersman's  eyes,  and  to  tell  him  to  keep  her  full) 
"  if  I  went  that  length." 

The  tow-boat  again  sheered  off,  and  her  skipper 
busied  himself  with  his  telescope. 

"  Wall,  Cap.,  she  may  be  a  smart  barque,  but 
I'm  darn  ef  ye  can  beat  her  though  the  Golden 
Gate  the  way  th'  wind  is.  Saay  !  Make  it  three- 
fifty  ?  What  the  hell's  about  a  fifty  dollars. 
Darn  me !  I've  blown  that  in  half  -  hour's 
poker  !  " 

"  Aye,  aye  !  That's  so  ;  but  I'm  no'  takin'  a 
hand  in  that  game.  Set  the  stays'ls,  Mister,  'n 
get  a  pull  on  the  fore  'n  main  sheets  !  " 

We  went  about  the  job,  and  the  Active  took 
another  turn,  this  time  to  the  south'ard.  Munro, 
aloft  loosing  the  staysails,  reported  a  steamer  away 
under  the  land.  She  was  sending  up  a  dense  smoke, 
and  that  caused  the  Old  Man  to  account  her  another 
tow-boat  out  seeking. 

"  That'll  fetch  him,"  he  said  to  the  Mate,  "  'n  if 
he  offers  again  I'll  close.  Three-fifty's  pretty  stiff, 
but  we  can't  complain." 


A    HOT   CARGO  89 

"  Egad,  no  !  "  said  the  Mate  ;  "  if  I'd  been  you 
I'd  have  closed  for  five  hundred,  an'  be  done  with 
it." 

"  Aye,  aye,  no  doubt  !  no  doubt !  But  ye're 
not  a  Scotchman  looking  after  his  owners'  interest." 

Soon  we  saw  the  Active  smoking  up  and  coming 
towards  us  with  '  a  bone  in  her  mouth.'  Cutbush 
had  seen  the  stranger's  smoke,  and  he  lost  no  time. 
He  seemed  to  be  heading  for  our  starboard  side, 
and  we  thought  the  game  was  up ;  but  the  Old 
Man  kept  off  imperceptibly,  and  again  the  tug  came 
to  port. 

"  Changed  yer  mind,  Cap.  ?  Guess  I  must  be 
gwine  back.  Got  t'  take  the  Drumeltan  up  t'  Port- 
Costa  in  th'  mornin'.  What  d'ye  say  t'  three 
hundred  ?  " 

The  Old  Man  called  the  Mate,  and  together  they 
held  a  serious  consultation,  with  many  looks  to 
windward,  aloft,  and  at  the  compass.  The  stranger 
was  rapidly  approaching,  and  showed  herself  to  be  a 
yellow-funnelled  tow-boat,  with  a  business-like  foam 
about  her  bows.  Spreckel's  man  was  getting  fidgety, 
as  this  was  one  of  the  opposition  boats,  and  he  ex- 
pected soon  to  be  quoting  a  competitive  figure.  To 
his  pleased  surprise,  the  Old  Man  came  over  to  lee- 
ward, and,  after  a  last  wrangle  about  the  hawser. 


go  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

took  him  on  at  the  satisfactory  figure  of  three 
hundred  dollars. 

We  put  about,  and  the  Mate  had  another  little 
deal  in  burned  paint.  Courses  were  hauled  up,  and 
the  Active  came  along  our  starboard  side  to  pass 
the  towing  wire  aboard.  The  paint  hid  the  patch, 
and  in  the  manoeuvre  of  keeping  clear  of  our 
whisker-booms,  the  smell  escaped  notice,  and  the 
marks  of  our  distress  were  not  noticed  by  her  crew. 
We  hauled  the  wire  aboard  and  secured  the  end, 
and  the  Active's  crew  heard  nothing  significant  in 
the  cheer  with  which  we  set  about  clewing-up  and 
furling  sail. 

The  afternoon  was  far  spent  when  we  reached 
the  pilot  schooner.  She  was  lying  at  anchor  out- 
side the  bar,  the  wind  having  died  away ;  and  as 
she  lifted  to  the  swell,  showed  the  graceful  under- 
body  of  an  old-time  '  crack.'  The  pilot  boarded  us 
as  we  towed  past.  Scarce  was  he  over  the  rail 
before  he  shouted  to  the  Old  Man,  "  What's  the 
matter,  Cap'n  ?  Guess  she  looks  's  if  she  had  a 
prutty  hot  cargo  aboard." 

"  Hot  enough,  Pilot !  Hot  enough,  b'  Goad  ! 
We've  bin  afire  forr'ard  these  last  seven  days 
that  we  know  of,  and  I'm  no'  sayin'  but  that  I'm 
glad  t'  see  th'  beach  again." 


A    HOT   CARGO  91 

"Wall,  that's  bad,  Cap'n.  That's  bad.  Ye 
won't  make  much  this  trip,  I  guess,  when  the 
1  boys  '  have  felt  ye  over. '  He  meant  when  the 
'Frisco  sharps  had  got  their  pickings,  and  the  Old 
Man  chuckled  audibly  as  he  replied. 

"  Oh,  we'll  chance  that — aye,  we'll  chance  that. 
It's  no'  so  bad  's  if  Cutbush  was  gettin'  his  figger." 

"  What's  he  gettin',  anyway  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  doin'  verra  well.  He's  doin'  verra 
well,"  said  the  Old  Man  evasively. 

We  were  now  approaching  the  far-famed  Golden 
Gate,  the  talk  of  mariners  on  seven  seas.  We  boys 
were  sent  aloft  to  unrig  the  chafing  gear,  and  took 
advantage  of  our  position  and  the  Mate's  occupation 
to  nurse  the  job,  that  we  might  enjoy  the  prospect. 
The  blue  headland  and  the  glistening  shingle  of 
Drake's  Bay  to  the  norrard  and  the  high  cliffs  of 
Benita  ahead  :  the  land  stretching  away  south, 
and  the  light  of  the  westing  sun  on  the  distant 
hills.  No  wonder  that  when  the  Mate  called  us 
down  from  aloft  to  hand  flags  there  was  much  of 
our  work  left  unfinished. 

At  Benita  Point  we  had  a  busy  time  signalling 
news  of  our  condition  to  the  ship's  agents  at  'Frisco. 
After  we  passed  through  the  Narrows,  we  had  a 
near  view  of  the  wooded  slopes  of  Saucilito,  with 


g2  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  white-painted  houses  nestling  comfortably 
among  the  trees.  Away  to  the  right  the  undulating 
plains  ot  the  Presidio  reached  out  to  the  purple 
haze  of  the  distant  city.  The  Pilot,  seeing  admira- 
tion in  our  eyes,  couldn't  help  blowing,  even  to 
us  boys,  and  exclaimed  aloud  on  the  greatness 
of  the  U — nited  States  in  possessing  such  a  sea- 
board. 

"  Saay,  boys,"  he  said.  "  Guess  yew  ain't  got 
nothin'  like  this  in  th'  old  country  !  " 

Young  Munro,  who  was  the  nearest,  didn't  let 
the  Pilot  away  with  that,  and  he  mentioned  a 
'  glint  of  Loch  Fyre,  when  the  sun  was  in  the 
west'ard.'  "  And  that's  only  one  place  I'm  speakin' 
of." 

The  sun  was  low  behind  us  as  we  neared  the 
anchorage,  and  a  light  haze  softened  and  made 
even  more  beautiful  the  outlines  of  the  stately 
City.  As  we  looked  on  the  shore,  no  one  had 
mind  of  the  long  dreary  voyage.  That  was  past 
and  done.  We  had  thought  only  for  the  City  of 
the  West  that  lay  before  us,  the  dream  of  many 
long  weary  nights. 

But,  as  I  gazed  and  turned  away,  I  was  sharply 
minded  of  what  the  sea  held  for  us.  Houston  had 
been  carried  on  deck,  "  t'  see  th'   sichts,"  as  he 


A    HOT   CARGO  93 

said.  His  stretcher  stood  near  me,  and  the  sight 
of  his  wan  face  brought  up  the  memory  of  bitter 
times  '  off  the  Horn.'  Of  the  black  night  when  we 
lost  Duncan  !  Of  the  day  when  Houston  lay  on 
the  cabin  floor,  and  the  master-surgeon  and  his 
rude  assistants  buckled  to  '  the  job  '  !  Of  the 
screams  of  the  tortured  lad — "  Let  me  alane !    Oh, 

Christ  !    Let  me  al "  till  kindly  Mother  Nature 

did  what  we  had  no  means  to  do  !  ...  "  Man, 
but  it  was  a  tough  job,  with  her  rolling  and  pitching 
in  the  track  o'  th'  gale  !  "  The  Old  Man  was  telling 
the  Pilot  about  it.  "  But  there  he  is,  noo  !  As 
sound  as  ye  like  ...  a  bit  weak,  mebbe,  but  sound  ! 
.  .  .  We'll  send  him  t'  th'  hospital,  when  we  get 
settled  down.  .  .  .  No'  that  they  could  dae  mair 
than  I've  dune."  Here  a  smile  of  worthy  pride. 
"  But  a  ship  's  no'  the  place  for  scienteefic  measures 
— stretchin',  an'  rubbin',  an'  that.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes  ! 
Straight  ?  I'll  bate  ye  he  walks  as  straight  as  a 
serjunt  before  we're  ready  for  sea  again  !  " 

As  we  drew  on  to  the  anchorage,  a  large  raft- 
like vessel  with  barges  in  tow  made  out  to  meet 
us.  The  Old  Man  turned  his  glasses  on  her  and 
gave  an  exclamation  of  satisfaction. 

"  Meyer's  been  damn  smart  in  sending  out  the 
fire-float,"  he  said  to  the  Mate,  adding,  "  Get  the 


94  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

foreyard  cock-billed,  Mister ;  and  a  burton  rigged 
to  heave  out  the  cargo  as  soon  's  we  anchor.  There's 
the  tow-boat  whistlin'  for  ye  to  shorten  in  th' 
hawser.  Bear  a  hand,  mind  ye,  for  we've  a  tough 
night's  work  before  us." 

•  ••••• 

But  all  was  not  pleasant  anticipation  aboard 
of  the  screw  tug  Active,  towing  gallantly  ahead, 
for  Captain  John  Cutbush  had  discovered  his  loss, 
and  the  world  wasn't  big  enough  for  his  indictment 
of  Fortune. 

He  had  seen  our  flags  off  Benita,  but  had  not 
troubled  to  read  the  message,  as  he  saw  the  answer- 
ing pennant  flying  from  the  Lighthouse.  In  scan- 
ning the  anchorage  for  a  convenient  berth  to  swing 
his  tow  in,  the  fire-float  caught  his  eye. 

"  Hello  !  somethin'  afire  in  th'  Bay  !  "  He  turned 
his  glasses  among  the  shipping,  in  search  of  a  com- 
motion, but  all  was  quiet  among  the  tall  ships. 

"  But  where's  she  lyin'-to  fer  ?  There  ain't 
nothin'  this  side  ov  Alcatraz,  I  reckon." 

Then  a  dread  suspicion  crossed  his  mind,  that 
made  him  jump  for  the  signal-book.  He  remem- 
bered the  flags  of  our  last  hoist,  and  feverishly 
turned  them  up. 

"  Arrange — assistance — for — arrival." 


A   HOT   CARGO  95 

Muttering  oaths,  he  dropped  the  book  and 
focussed  his  glasses  on  the  tow.  The  track  of 
the  fire  was  patent  to  the  world  now,  and  we  were 
unbending  the  sails  from  the  yards  above  the  fore- 
hatch. 

"  She's  afire  right   'nuff,   'n  I  never  cottoned. 

Roast  me  for  a  .     'N  that's  what  the  downy 

old  thief  was  standin'  t'  th'  norrard  for,  'n  I  never 
cottoned !  'N  that's  what  he  took  me  on  at 
three  hundred  for,  'n  Meyer's  boat  almost  along- 
side.    Three  hundred   'n  my  hawser. 

Waal — I'm — damned  !  The  old  limejuice  pirate  ! 
Guess  I  should  'a  known  him  for  a  bloody  sharp 
when  I  saw  Glasgow  on  her  stern." 

He  stopped  cursing,  to  blow  his  whistle — a  signal 
for  us  to  shorten  in  the  towing  hawser.  In  the 
ensuing  manoeuvres  he  was  able  to  relieve  his 
feelings  by  criticising  our  seamanship  ;  he  swung 
us  round  with  a  vicious  sheer,  eased  up,  and  watched 
our  anchor  tumbling  from  the  bows.  He  gazed 
despairingly  at  his  Mate,  who  was  steering. 

"  Here's  a  ruddy  mess,  Gee-orge,"  he  said.  "  Three 
thousan'  dollars  clean  thrown  away.  What'll  the 
boss  say.    What'll  they  say  on  th'  Front  ? 

George  cursed  volubly,  and  expended  much  valu- 
able tobacco  juice. 


96  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Here's  a  boomer  fer  th'  '  Examiner,'  Geeorge ; 
here's  a  sweet  headline  fer  th'  '  Call '  ! 

"  '  Cutbush  done  !  ' 

"  '  Cap'n  Jan  Cutbush  done  in  th'  eye  !  ! ' 

"  '  Cap'n  Jan  S.  Cutbush,  th'  smartest  skipper 
on  th'  Front,  done  in  the  bloody  eye  by  a  bargoo- 
eatin'  son  ef  a  gun  ef  a  grey-headed  lime  juicer  !  !  1 '" 


VIII 

WORK ! 

SCARCELY  was  our  anchor  down  in  'Frisco 
Bay  than  the  boarding-house  '  crimps  '  were 
alongside,  beaming  with  good-fellowship,  and  tum- 
bling over  one  another  in  their  anxiety  to  shake 
'  Jack  '  by  the  hand,  and  to  tell  him  of  the  glorious 
openings  and  opportunities  for  smart  sailormen 
ashore.  The  Mate  vainly  endeavoured  to  prevent 
them  boarding  the  ship,  but  with  the  ordinary 
harassing  duties  incident  on  arrival,  and  the  extra- 
ordinary matter  of  a  serious  fire  in  the  hold,  he 
could  not  do  everything ;  so  the  '  crimps '  in- 
stalled themselves  in  the  fo'cas'le,  and  the  grog 
(Welcome  -  home  Brand)  was  flowing  far  and 
free. 

The    starboard    watch    were    aloft    furling    the 

tops'ls,  and  only  the  presence  of  the  Captain  and 

Mates  at  the  foot  of  the  rigging  kept  them  from 

joining  the  hilarious  crowd  in  the  fo'cas'le.     The 

h  97 


98  THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Mate's  watch  had  been  employed  at  the  ground 
tackle,  and  had  dodged  in  and  out  of  the  fo'cas'le ; 
so  that,  in  a  very  short  time,  they  were  all  '  three 
sheets  in  the  wind,'  and  making  for  trouble.  Voot- 
gert,  the  Belgian,  was  the  first  to  fall  foul  of  the 
Mate,  and  that  sorely-tried  Officer  could  hardly 
be  blamed  for  using  all  four  limbs  on  the  offending 
'  squarehead.'  Seeing  their  shipmate  thus  handled, 
the  watch  would  have  raised  a  general  melee,  but 
the  boarding-house  '  crimps,'  having  no  liking 
for  police  interference,  succeeded  in  calming  the 
valiant  ones  by  further  draughts  of  their  fiery 
panacea.  To  us  boys  (who  had  heard  great  tales 
of  revolvers  and  other  weapons  being  freely  used 
by  ship  captains  in  preventing  their  men  from 
being  '  got  at ')  these  mutinous  ongoings  were  a 
matter  of  great  wonderment ;  but,  later,  we  learned 
that  freights  were  low,  and  we  were  likely  to  be 
many  months  in  'Frisco  ;  that  crews'  wages  and 
victualling,  when  the  ship  is  earning  no  money, 
reflect  on  the  professional  character  of  an  old-time 
shipmaster,  and  that  to  baulk  the  '  crimps  '  on 
arrival  means  an  expensive  delay  in  making  up  a 
crew  when  the  ship  is  again  ready  for  sea. 

Wee  Laughlin  and  the  nigger  were  the  first  to 
yield  to  the  eloquence  of  their  visitors.     No  one 


WORK !  99 

was  surprised  that  the  Mate  let  Laughlin  clear 
without  interference.  A  poor  sailor,  though  a  lot 
had  been  licked  into  him  since  he  left  the  '  Poort,' 
he  was  not  worth  keeping.  His  kind  could  be 
picked  up  on  the  Water  Front  any  day.  He  had 
come  on  board  at  Greenock — a  pierhead  jump,  with 
his  wardrobe  on  his  back  and  a  '  hauf-mutchkin  ' 
of  very  inferior  whisky  in  his  pocket.  Now,  to  our 
astonishment,  he  threw  a  well-filled  bag  over  the 
side  before  he  slid  down  the  rope  into  the  '  crimp's  ' 
boat.  Long  intending  to  desert  when  we  arrived, 
he  had  taken  as  much  of  his  pay  in  clothes  and 
slop-chest  gear  as  the  Old  Man  would  allow.  It 
was  said,  too,  that  a  lot  of  poor  Duncan's  clothes 
never  came  to  auction,  and  more  than  one  sus- 
pected Wee  Laughlin  of  a  run  through  Duncan's 
bag  before  the  Old  Niven  got  forward  and  claimed 
what  was  left. 

That  well-filled  bag  ! 

To  the  Second  Mate,  who  was  eyeing  his  de- 
parture, he  flung  a  salutation,  first  seeing  that  his 
line  of  retreat  was  clear.    "  Weel,  so  long,  Mister, 

ye  Hielan'  ,  ye  can  pit  ma  fower  pun  ten  i' 

yer  e'e  'n  ca'  yersel'  a  bloody  banker  !  " 

No  one  saw  the  nigger  go,  but  gone  he  was, 
bag  and  baggage ;    and  loud  were  the  curses  oi 


ioo         THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  cook,  to  whom  he  owed  four  pounds  of  tobacco 
for  losses  at  crib. 

While  all  this  was  going  on,  and  the  '  crimps  ' 
were  marking  down  their  prey,  the  crew  of  the  fire- 
float  had  located  the  fire  and  cut  a  hole  in  the 
'tween-decks  above  the  hottest  part.  Through 
this  a  big  ten-inch  hose  was  passed,  and  soon  the 
rhythmic  clank-clank  of  their  pump  brought  'Frisco 
Bay  to  our  assistance. 

Darkness  fell  on  a  scene  of  uproar.  Everything 
was  at  sixes  and  sevens  forward,  and  the  discipline 
of  five  months  was  set  at  naught.  Drunken  men 
tumbled  over  the  big  hose  and  slippery  decks,  and 
got  in  the  firemen's  way ;  steam  enveloped  the 
decks  as  in  a  fog ;  dim  figures  of  men  struggled 
and  quarrelled ;  curses  and  hoarse  shouts  came 
from  the  fo'cas'le,  whence  the  hands  were  being 
driven  by  the  rising  smoke  and  steam ;  rushing 
figures  transferred  their  few  belongings  to  safer 
quarters ;  and  through  all  throbbed  the  steady 
clank-clank  of  the  fire-engine. 

A  strange  contrast  to  the  quiet  and  peaceful 
scene  about  us — with  a  low  moon  over  San  Rafael, 
and  the  lghts  of  the  shipping  reflected  in  the 
placid  water.  A  few  fishing-boats  were  drifting 
out  on  the  tide,  with  creak  of  oar  and  rowlock ; 


WORK!  101 

and  above  all  was  the  glare  of  the  lighted  streets 
and  harbour  lights  of  the  great  city. 

Not  long  had  we  to  contrast  the  scenes,  for  the 
Mate,  and  the  Old  Man  himself,  were  at  our  backs, 
man-driving  the  few  sober  hands,  to  make  up  for 
their  inability  to  handle  the  skulkers.  They  did 
not  spare  themselves  in  driving,  and  at  salving  the 
gear  in  the  lamp-room  the  Captain  made  a  weird 
picture,  black  and  grimy,  with  a  cloth  over  his 
mouth,  passing  the  lamps  out  to  the  boys. 

With  such  a  volume  of  water  pouring  below,  it 
was  necessary  to  get  a  pump  in  position  to  keep 
our  craft  afloat.  She  was  now  far  down  by  the 
head  and  had  a  heavy  list,  and  as  the  ship's  pumps 
would  not  draw,  the  Firemaster  arranged  to  put 
one  of  his  pumps  into  the  fore-peak.  To  make 
this  efficient,  we  had  to  raise  the  sluice  in  the 
forrard  bulkhead  ;  and  even  the  Old  Man  looked 
anxious  when  the  Carpenter  reported  that  the 
sluice  was  jammed,  and  that  the  screw  had  broken 
in  his  hands.  The  stream  of  water  into  the  hold 
was  immediately  stopped,  and  all  available  hands 
(few  enough  we  were)  were  put  to  clearing  the 
fore-peak,  that  the  sluice  could  be  got  at.  In  this 
compartment  all  the  ship's  spare  gear  and  bos'un's 
stores  were  kept,  and  the  lower  hold  held  ten  tons 


102         THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

of  the  ship's  coal.  The  small  hatchway  made 
despatch  impossible,  and  the  want  of  a  winch  was 
keenly  felt.  It  was  back-breaking  work,  hauling 
up  the  heavy  blocks,  the  cordage,  sails  and  tar- 
paulins, chains,  kegs  and  coils,  and  dragging  them 
out  on  deck.  A  suffocating  atmosphere  and  foul 
gases  below  showed  that  the  seat  of  the  fire  was 
not  far  off,  and  often  the  workers  were  dragged  up 
in  a  semi-conscious  state.  The  Mate  was  the  first 
to  go  down,  and  he  hung  out  till  nature  rebelled, 
and  he  was  dragged  up  and  put  in  the  open  air. 
There  the  aggrieved  Belgian  saw  him,  and,  mad- 
dened by  drink,  took  advantage  of  his  exhaustion 
to  kick  him  viciously  in  the  ribs ;  but  Jones 
promptly  laid  the  Dutchman  out  with  a  hand- 
spike. 

In  a  moment  the  drink,  discontent,  excitement, 
and  overwork  found  vent  in  furious  riot :  ship- 
mates of  five  months'  standing,  comrades  in  fair 
weather  and  foul,  were  at  each  other's  throats,  and 
amid  the  smoke  and  steam  no  man  could  name 
his  enemy.  Welsh  John,  in  trying  to  get  young 
Munro  out  of  harm's  way,  was  knocked  down  the 
open  hatch,  and  he  lay,  groaning,  with  a  broken 
arm,  amid  the  steam  and  stench.  Hicks,  the  bo'sun, 
was  stabbed  in  the  cheek,  and  someone  knocking 


WORK!  103 

the  lamps  over,  added  darkness  to  the  vicious 
conflict.  Blind  and  blaspheming,  animals  all,  we 
fought  our  way  to  the  doors,  and  the  malcontents, 
in  ill  plight  themselves,  cared  little  to  follow  us. 

Meantime  the  Firemaster,  seeing  how  matters 
stood,  called  his  men  together  and  turned  a  hose 
into  the  fo'cas'le.  The  thin,  vicious  stream  proved 
too  much  for  the  mutineers,  and  we  were  soon  in 
possession  again.  John  was  taken  up  from  the 
fore-peak  (he  was  far  through)  and  carried  aft.  The 
mutineers,  such  as  were  fit,  were  put  down  below 
to  dig  coals  till  they  could  dig  no  more  ;  and  again 
the  work  went  on — weary,  body-racking  work. 

With  aching  eyes  and  every  muscle  in  revolt, 
we  toiled  on  in  silence,  not  even  a  curse  among  us. 
Silence,  broken  only  by  the  rattle  of  the  block- 
sheave,  as  the  baskets  of  coal  were  hove  up  and 
emptied.  There  was  now  no  need  for  the  Old  Man 
to  hold  himself  in  readiness,  with  something  in  his 
pocket  that  bulged  prominently,  for  there  was  not 
an  ounce  of  fight  left  in  the  crowd,  and  '  Smith 
and  Wessons  '  are  ill-fitting  things  to  carry  about. 
Two  hours  we  had  of  this,  and  give  in  was  very 
near  when  the  welcome  news  came  up  that  they 
had  got  at  the  sluice,  that  the  water  was  trickling 
through.    Soon  after,  the  sluice  was  prised  up,  and 


104         THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  pent-up  water  rushed  into  the  peak.  The 
Firemaster  passed  Ins  pipe  below,  and  again  the 
pumps  were  set  agoing. 

We  staggered  out  into  the  fresh  morning  air, 
red-eyed  and  ragged,  and  a  madhouse  gang  we 
looked  in  the  half-light  of  an  early  Californian 
dawn.  Faces  haggard  and  blackened  by  the 
smoke,  eyes  dazed  and  bloodshot,  and  on  nearly 
everyone  evidence  of  the  ten  minutes'  sanguinary 
encounter  in  bruised  eyes  and  bloody  faces.  The 
Mate  called  a  muster  to  serve  out  grog,  and  of  our 
crew  of  twenty-seven  hands  only  fifteen  answered 
the  call.  The  Old  Man  tried  to  make  a  few  re- 
marks to  the  men.  He  had  been  frequently  to  the 
bottle  through  the  night,  for  his  speech  was  thick 
and  his  periods  uncertain. 

"  No   bloody   nozzush,    b'    Goad  .  .  .  stan'    no 

nozzush,  Mis'r  "  was  about  the  burden  of 

his  lay. 

With  a  modest  glass  of  strong  rum  to  raise  our 
spirits  momentarily,  we  lingered  before  going  below 
to  note  the  wreck  and  confusion  that  our  once 
trim  barque  was  now  in.  She  was  still  down  by 
the  head,  and  listed  at  an  awkward  angle.  The 
decks  were  littered  with  gear  and  stores,  muddy 
and  dirty  as  a  city  street  on  a  day  of  rain.    Aloft, 


WORK !  105 

the  ill-furled  tops 'Is  hung  bunched  below  the  yards, 
with  lazy  gaskets  streaming  idly  in  mid-air ;  and 
the  yards,  '  lifted  '  at  all  angles,  gave  a  lubberly 
touch  to  our  distressed  appearance.  The  riding- 
light,  still  burning  brightly  on  the  forestay,  though 
the  sun  was  now  above  the  horizon,  showed  that 
we  had  lost  all  regard  for  routine. 

A  damp  mist,  the  '  pride  o'  the  morning,'  was 
creeping  in  from  seaward,  and  the  siren  at  the 
Golden  Gate  emitted  a  mournful  wail  at  intervals. 
Near  us,  at  the  anchorage,  a  big  black  barque, 
loaded  and  in  sea-trim,  was  getting  under  weigh, 
and  the  haunting  strain  of  '  Shenandoah,'  most 
beautiful  of  sea-chanteys,  timed  by  the  musical 
clank  of  the  windlass  pawls,  was  borne  on  the  wind 
to  us. 

"  An  outward-bounder,  and  a  blue-nose  at  that," 
said  Martin. 

We  wondered  if  Wee  Laughlin  was  already  in 
her  fo'cas'le,  with  a  skinful  of  drugged  liquor  to 
reckon  with.  The  '  crimps '  lose  no  time  if  they 
can  get  their  man  under,  and  Wee  Laughlin,  by 
his  own  glory  of  it,  was  a  famous  swallower. 

In  the  half-deck,  some  of  the  boys  were  already 
turned  in,  and  lying  in  uneasy  attitudes,  with  only 
their  boots  and  jackets  off.    Jones,  who  had  been 


106         THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

severely  handled  in  the  scrimmage,  was  moaning 
fitfully  in  his  sleep,  his  head  swathed  in  bloody 
bandages,  and  the  pallor  showing  in  his  face  through 
the  grime  and  coal-dust.  Hansen  was  the  last  man 
in.  He  threw  himself  wearily  down  on  the  sea- 
chests,  now  all  of  a  heap  to  leeward,  snatched  a 
pillow  from  under  Munro's  head,  and  composed 
himself  to  rest. 

"  Mate  says  I'm  to  keep  watch,  'n  call  him  at 
eight  bells  ;  but,  judgin'  by  th'  way  he  put  the 
grog  down,  I'm  damn  sure  he'll  stir  tack  nor  sheet 
till  midday.  .  .  .  Firemaster  says  she's  under  hand, 
'n  he'll  have  the  fire  out  in  two  hours,  'n  she  can 
bally  well  look  out  for  herself.  .  .  .  T'  hell  with  an 
anchor  watch ;  I  can't  keep  my  eyes  open,  an'  '11 
work  .  .  .  work  ...  no  m " 


IX 
IN   'FRISCO  TOWN 

T  7f  TE  moored  at  Mission  Wharf  to  discharge  what 
"  v  cargo  the  fire  had  spared,  and  there  we  made 
a  lubberly  picture,  outcast  among  so  many  trim 
ships.  The  firemen  had  done  their  duty  and  had 
left  us  to  do  ours,  and  we  had  to  work  our  hardest 
to  put  the  ship  in  order  again.  A  firm  of  ship- 
wrights were  employed  to  repair  the  damage — 
the  twisted  stanchions,  buckled  beams,  burnt 
decks,  worthless  pumps,  and  hold  fittings.  Old 
Jock  was  not  a  Scotchman  for  nothing,  and  to 
make  their  contract  profitable,  the  'wrights  did 
nothing  that  they  could  wriggle  out  of.  So  we  had 
extra  work  to  do — their  work — and  from  daylight 
to  dark  were  kept  hard  at  it,  man-driven  as  only 
our  hardcase  Mate  could  drive.  It  was  no  wonder 
that  we  were  in  a  state  of  discontent.  Here  we 
were,  after  a  long,  hard  voyage,  working  our  '  soul- 

107 


108        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

case '  to  shreds !  And  there — just  across  the  wharf 
— were  the  lights  of  Market  Street,  that  seemed  to 
beckon  us  to  come  ashore  !  There  were  angry 
mutterings,  and  only  a  wholesome  fear  of  the 
Mate's  big  hands  kept  us  at  the  task. 

With  the  men  forward  it  was  even  worse.  The 
word  had  gone  out  that  no  money  would  be  ad- 
vanced until  the  cargo  was  discharged  and  the  ship 
put  to  rights.  No  money — not  even  the  price  of 
a  '  schooner  '  !  And  the  ghost  of  nigh  six  months, 
salt  beef  waiting  to  be  '  laid  ! ' 

Their  state  of  mind  was  soon  observed  by  the 
boarding-masters.  Whalers  were  in  the  Bay,  fitted 
out  and  ready  for  sea,  and  only  a  lack  of  sailormen 
kept  them  within  the  Golden  Gate.  To  get  these  men 
— the  blood-money  for  their  shipment,  rather — was 
the  business  of  the  '  crimps,'  who  showed  a  wealth 
of  imagination  in  describing  the  various  topping 
shore  jobs  that  they  held  at  their  disposal.  Now 
it  was  a  '  mine  manager '  they  were  looking  for  in 
our  forecastle  ;  to-morrow  it  would  be  a  fruit  sales- 
man they  wanted  !  They  secured  smiling  Dutch 
John  as  a  decoy,  and  set  him  up  behind  the  bar 
of  a  Water  Front  saloon.  There,  when  work  was 
over  for  the  day,  his  former  shipmates  foregathered, 
and  John  (fairly  sober,  considering)   put  up  free 


IN    'FRISCO  TOWN  109 

drinks  and  expanded  on  the  goodness  of  a  long- 
shore life. 

"  Vat  jou  boysh  stop  mil  der  ship  on  ?  Jou 
tinks  dere  vas  no  yobs  on  shore  ?  De  boardin'- 
master  damn  lie,  eh  ?  ...  Ah  vas  get  me  four 
dollars  a  day ;  und  der  boss,  ven  'e  see  me  de 
glasses  break,  say  me  nodings  !  Ah  goes  from  der 
hans,  und  comes  to  der  haus  in — und  'e  say  nod 
like  der  Mate,  '  Vat  jou  do  dere,  verdamt  shwine  ? 
Was  fur  jou  no  go  on  mit  jour  vark  ?  '  .  .  . 
'ttverdam !  It  vas  der  life,  mein  boysh  !  It  vas 
der  life !  " 

Against  such  a  pronouncement  from  their  whilom 
shipmate,  and  with  the  plain  evidence  of  his  pros- 
perity before  their  eyes,  it  was  useless  to  argue. 
Here  was  John  able  to  stand  free  drinks  all  round, 
and  the  saloon  boss  '  standin'  by '  and  smiling 
pleasantly.  Didn't  John  say,  "  Here,  boss,  jou  gif 
me  a  light  for  mein  cigar !  "  and  the  owner  of  the 
place  handed  out  his  silver  box  instanter  ?  John  ! 
A  '  Dutchman,'  too, — not  even  the  best  sailorman 
of  the  '  crowd  '  !  .  .  .  ("  Here,  boss,  what  was  that 
job  ye  was  talkin'  about  ?  I  guess  there  ain't 
nuthin'  I  can't  do  w'en  I  sets  my  'ead  to  it !  ") 
Soon  the  'crimps,'  ever  ready  at  hand,  were  off 
to  the  ship,  hot-foot,  for  bags  and  baggage  1 


no        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Those  who  still  held  by  the  ship  were  visited  at 
all  hours,  and  the  comings  and  goings  of  the  tempters 
were  not  even  checked  by  the  Mate.  The  dinner 
hour  was  the  most  opportune  time  for  them,  for 
then  they  had  the  miserable  meal  to  point  to  in 
scorn. 

"  Call  yewrselves  min,"  they  said,  "  a  sittin' 
hyar  at  yer  lobscouse  an'  dawg  biscuits,  an'  forty 
dallars  a  month  jest  waitin'  t'  be  picked  up  ?  .  .  . 
Forty  dallars  ...  an'  no  more  graft  'n  a  boy  kin 
dew  !  Darn  it,  I  wouldn't  give  that  mess  to  me 
dawg  !  .  .  .  A  fine  lot  yees  are,  fer  sure  !  Ain't 
got  no  heart  t'  strike  aout  f'r  decent  grub  'n  a  soft 
job.  .  .  .  Forty  dallars,  I  guess  !  ...  Is  thar  a 
'  man '  among  ye  ?  .  .  .  Chip  in  yewr  dunnage 
an'  step  ashore,  me  bucks  !  A  soft  job  in  a  free 
country,  an'  no  damn  limejuice  Mate  t'  sweat  ye 
araound  !  " 

The  '  spell  worked  '  !  Within  a  fortnight  of  our 
arrival  most  of  the  men  who  had  signed  with  us 
had,  '  Deserted.  Left  no  effects,'  entered  against 
their  names  in  our  official  Log.  Soon  the  whalers 
were  at  sea,  standing  to  the  north,  and  Dutch  John, 
shorn  of  his  proud  position,  was  shipped  as  cook 
on  a  hard-case  New  Yorker ! 

The  bos'un  and  Old  Martin  were  still  with  us, 


IN   'FRISCO   TOWN  in 

and  we  had  Welsh  John  and  Houston  safe  in  the 
hospital — about  the  only  place  in  'Frisco  where  no 
healthy  '  crimp '  could  gain  admission.  For  want 
of  better  game,  perhaps,  the  boarding-masters  paid 
some  attention  to  the  half-deck,  but  we  had,  in 
the  Chaplain  of  the  British  Seamen's  Institute,  a 
muscular  mentor  to  guide  us  aright.  From  the  first 
he  had  won  our  hearts  by  his  ability  to  put  Browne 
(our  fancy  man)  under  the  ropes  in  three  rounds. 
It  was  said  that,  in  the  absence  of  a  better  argu- 
ment, he  was  able  and  willing  to  turn  his  sleeves  up 
to  the  stiffest  '  crimp  '  on  the  Front.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  there  was  no  doubt  about  his  influence  with 
brassbounders  in  the  port.  Desertions  among  us — 
that  had  formerly  been  frequent — were  rare  enough 
when  James  Fell  came,  swinging  his  stick,  to  see 
what  was  doing  on  the  Front ! 

With  the  crew  gone,  we  found  matters  improved 
with  us.  The  Mate,  having  no  '  crowd  '  to  rush 
around,  was  inclined  to  take  things  easy,  and, 
when  sober,  was  quite  decent.  Although  but  a  few 
weeks  in  the  country,  we  were  now  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  freedom ;  learned  to  '  guess '  and 
'  reckon  ' ;  called  Tuesday  '  Toosday  ' ;  and  said 
"  No,  sir-rr !  "  when  emphatic  denial  was  called  for. 
Eccles  even   tried  the  democratic  experiment  of 


ii2        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

omitting  his  "  sir "  when  answering  the  Mate. 
Disastrous  result ! 

Seamanship  was  shelved,  for  a  time  at  least,  and 
we  were  employed  like  longshore  labourers  on  the 
ship's  hull.  The  rust  and  barnacles  of  our  outward 
passage  had  to  be  chipped  off  and  scraped,  and 
we  had  more  than  enough  of  the  din  of  chipping 
hammers  and  the  stench  of  patent  compositions. 
One  day  Burke  discovered  his  elder  brother's  name 
painted  on  the  piles  of  the  wharf,  and  when  he  told 
us  with  pride  of  the  painter's  position,  '  Captain  of 
a  big  tramp  steamer,'  we  were  consoled  by  the 
thought  that  we  were  only  going  through  the  mill 
as  others  had  done  before  us.  When  the  painting 
was  finished  we  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  our  barque  was  not  the  least  comely  of  the 
many  tall  ships  that  lined  the  wharves. 

At  night,  when  work  was  over,  we  had  the  free- 
dom of  the  City.  It  was  good  to  be  on  the  beach 
again.  Money  was  scarce  with  us,  and  in  a  place 
where  five  cents  is  the  smallest  currency,  we  found 
our  little  stock  go  fast,  if  not  far.  If  luxuries  were 
beyond  our  reach,  at  least  the  lighted  streets  were 
ours,  and  it  was  with  a  delightful  sense  of  freedom 
from  ship  discipline  that  we  sauntered  from  '  sailor- 
town  '    to    '  China-town,'    or    through    the    giant 


IN    'FRISCO  TOWN  113 

thoroughfares  that  span  the  heart  of  the  City  itself. 
Everything  was  new,  and  fine,  and  strange.  The 
simple  street  happenings,  the  busy  life  and  move- 
ments, the  glare  and  gaudery  of  the  lights,  were 
as  curious  to  us  as  if  we  had  never  landed 
before. 

'  Sailor-town ' — the  Water  Front,  was  first  be- 
yond the  gangway.  Here  were  the  boarding-houses 
and  garish  saloons,  the  money-changers'  and 
shoddy  shops.  The  boarding-houses  were  cleanei 
than  the  dinginess  of  an  old-world  seaport  would 
allow,  and  the  proprietors  who  manned  their  door- 
ways looked  genial  monuments  of  benevolence. 
On  occasions  they  would  invite  us  in — "  Come  right 
in,  boyees,  an'  drink  the  health  o'  th'  haouse," 
was  the  word  of  it — but  we  had  heard  of  the 
Shanghai  Passage,  and  were  chary  of  their  advances. 
Often  our  evident  distrust  was  received  with 
boisterous  laughter.  "  Saay,"  they  would  shout. 
"  Yew  needn't  shy,  me  sucking  bloody  Nelsons  ! 
It's  little  use  yew  'ud  be  aboard  a  packet !  "  .  .  . 
"  Light — the — binnacle,  bo — oy  !  "  was  another 
salutation  for  brassbounders,  but  that  came  usually 
from  a  lady  at  an  upper  window,  and  there  would 
be  a  sailorman  there — out  of  sight,  as  prompters 
properly  are. 


ii4        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

At  the  clothing  shop  doors,  the  Jews  were  ever 
on  the  alert  for  custom.  A  cheap  way  of  entertain- 
ment was  to  linger  for  a  moment  at  their  windows, 
pointing  and  admiring.  Isaac  would  be  at  us  in  a 
moment,  feeling  the  texture  of  our  jackets  with  his 
bony  fingers  and  calling  on  the  whole  street  to 
witness  that  it  was  "  a  biece  'f  damn  good  shduff  !  " 
Then  it  would  be,  "  Gome  into  de  shop,  Misdur ! 
I  guess  I  god  de  tingsh  you  vannt !  " 

After  we  had  spent  a  time  examining  and  pricing 
his  scent-bottles  and  spring  garters,  and  hand- 
painted  braces  and  flowered  velvet  slippers  and 
'  Green  River '  sheath-knives,  we  thought  it  but 
right  to  tell  him  that  Levy  Eckstein  of  Montgomery 
Street  was  our  man  ;  that  our  Captain  would  pay 
no  bills  for  us  but  his  ! 

With  Levy  our  business  was  purely  financial ; 
cent,  per  cent,  transactions  in  hard  cash.  He  had 
contracted  with  the  Old  Man  to  supply  us  with 
clothing,  but,  though  our  bills  specified  an  outfit 
of  substantial  dry  goods,  we  were  always  able  to 
carry  away  the  parcels  in  our  smallest  waistcoat 
pocket.  "  One  dollar  for  two,"  was  Levy's  motto. 
If  his  terms  were  hard,  his  money  was  good,  and, 
excepting  for  the  Old  Man's  grudging  advances,  we 
had  no  other  way  of '  raising  the  wind.' 


IN   'FRISCO  TOWN  115 

In  '  China-town '  we  found  much  to  astonish  us. 
We  could  readily  fancy  ourselves  in  far  Cathay. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  narrow  streets  and  fancily 
carved  house  fronts  to  suggest  an  important  City 
in  the  States.  Quaint  shop  signs  and  curious  swing- 
ing lanterns ;  weird  music  and  noises  in  the 
'  theatres ' ;  uncanny  smells  from  the  eating- 
houses  ;  the  cat-like  sound  of  China  talk — all 
jumbled  together  in  a  corner  of  the  most  western 
city  of  the  West ! 

The  artisans  in  their  little  shops,  working  away 
far  into  the  night,  interested  us  the  most,  and  some 
of  our  little  money  went  to  purchase  small  wares 
for  the  home  folks.  It  was  here  that  Munro  bought 
that  long  '  back-scratcher ' ;  the  one  he  took  home 
to  his  father  ! 

Sometimes,  when  we  could  induce  our  Burke  to 
make  up  to  one  of  his  compatriots  (the  blue-coated, 
six-foot  Fenians  who  keep  'Frisco  under  martial 
law),  we  saw  something  of  the  real,  the  underground 
China-town.  It  was  supposed  to  be  a  hazardous  ex- 
cursion, but,  beyond  treading  the  dark,  forbidding 
alleys,  haunts  of  '  Li- Johns  '  and  '  Highbinders,' 
we  had  no  sight  of  the  sensational  scenes  that  others 
told  us  of.  We  saw  opium  dens,  and  were  surprised 
at  the  appearance  of  the  smokers.    Instead  of  the 


u6        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

wasted  and  debauched  beings,  of  whom  we  had 
read,  we  found  stout  Johns  and  lean  Johns,  lively 
Johns  and  somnolent  Johns,  busy  and  idle — 
but  all  looking  as  if  they  regarded  life  as  a  huge 
joke. 

They  laughed  amiably  at  our  open  mouths,  and 
made  remarks  to  us.  These,  of  course,  we  were 
unable  to  understand,  but  at  least  we  could  grin, 
and  that  seemed  to  be  the  answer  expected.  When 
our  guide  took  us  to  free  air  again,  and  we  found 
ourselves  far  from  where  we  had  entered,  we  could 
readily  '  take  it  from  Michael '  that  the  under- 
ground passages  offered  harbour  to  all  the  queer 
fellows  of  the  City.  With  the  night  drawing  on, 
and  a  reminder  in  our  limbs  that  we  had  done  a 
hard  day's  work,  we  would  go  to  Clark's,  in  Kearney, 
a  coffee-house  famed  among  brassbounders.  There 
we  would  refresh  and  exchange  ship  news  with 
'  men  '  from  other  ships.  Clark  himself — a  kindly 
person  with  a  hint  of  the  Doric  amidst  his 
'  Amurricanisms  ' — was  always  open  to  reason  in 
the  middle  of  the  week,  and  we  never  heard  that  he 
had  lost  much  by  his  '  accommodations.' 

When  we  returned  to  the  streets,  the  exodus 
from  the  theatres  would  be  streaming  towards  cars 
and  ferry.    It  was  time  we  were  on  board  again. 


IN   'FRISCO   TOWN  117 

Often  there  would  be  a  crowd  of  us  bound  for  the 
wharves.  It  was  a  custom  to  tramp  through  '  sailor- 
town  '  together.  On  the  way  we  would  cheer  the 
'  crimps  '  up  by  a  stave  or  two  of  '  Mariners  of 
England.' 


THE  DIFFICULTY  WITH  THE  'TORREADORV 

J"  N  the  half-deck  differences,  sometimes  leading 
•*■  to  fisticuffs,  were  of  daily  occurrence ;  but, 
considering  that  we  were  boys,  drawn  from  all 
parts,  each  with  his  town  or  county's  claim  to 
urge,  we  dwelt  very  happily  together.  Though 
our  barque  was  Scotch,  we  were  only  two  strong, 
and  at  times  it  was  very  difficult  to  keep  our  end 
up,  and  impress  our  Southron  shipmates  with  a 
proper  sense  of  our  national  importance.  The 
voice  of  reason  was  not  always  pacific,  and  on 
these  occasions  we  could  but  do  our  best.  Our 
Jones  (of  Yorkshire)  was  of  a  quarrelsome  nature ; 
most  of  our  bickers  were  of  his  seeking,  and  to  him 
our  strained  relations  with  the  '  Torreador's '  was 
mainly  due. 

The  Torreador  had  berthed  next  to  us  at  Mission 
Wharf,  and  by  the  unwritten  laws  of  the  sea  and 
the  customs  of  the  port  of  San  Francisco,  her  crew 

118 


'TORREADOR'S'  119 

should  have  fraternised  with  us  ;  from  the  mates 
(who  could  exchange  views  on  the  sizes  of  rope  and 
the  chances  of  promotion)  down  to  the  younger 
apprentices  (who  should  have  visited  one  another  to 
'  swap  '  ship's  biscuit).  With  other  ships  matters 
might  have  been  arranged,  but  the  Torreador  was 
a  crack  ship,  and  flew  the  blue  ensign,  even  on 
week-days ;  her  captain  was  an  F.R.A.S.,  and 
her  boys  (whose  parents  paid  heavy  premiums  for 
the  glitter)  wore  brass  buttons  to  everyday  work, 
and  were  rated  as  midshipmen,  no  less  !  The  day 
after  her  arrival  some  of  them  were  leaning  over 
the  rail  looking  at  our  barque,  and  acquaintance 
might  have  been  made  then  and  there,  but  Jones 
(who  fancied  himself  a  wit)  spoiled  the  chances  of 
an  understanding  by  asking  them  if  the  stewardess 
had  aired  their  socks  properly  that  morning.  Such 
a  question  aroused  great  indignation,  and  for  over 
a  fortnight  we  were  '  low  bounders,'  and  they  '  kid- 
glove  sailors.' 

Matters  went  ill  between  us,  and  our  ships  were 
too  close  together  to  ignore  one  another  altogether. 
The  '  Torreador's  '  contented  themselves  with  look- 
ing smarter  and  more  aggressively  clean  than  ever, 
and  with  casting  supercilious  glances  all  over  us 
when  they  saw  us  chipping  and  scraping  the  rust 


120        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

off  our  vessel's  topside — (they  never  got  such  jobs 
to  do,  as  their  Old  Man  was  too  busy  cramming 
them  up  with  "Sumners"  and  "Deviation  Curves"). 
We  replied  by  making  stage  asides  to  one  another 
on  the  methods  of  '  coddling  sickly  sailors,'  and 
Jones  even  went  the  length  of  arraying  himself 
in  a  huge  paper  collar  when  he  was  put  over-side 
to  paint  ship.  A  brilliant  idea,  he  thought  it,  until 
the  Mate  noticed  him,  and  made  his  ears  tingle 
till  sundown. 

The  '  Torreador's  '  kept  a  gangway  watch,  and 
one  of  his  duties  seemed  to  be  to  cross  the  deck 
at  intervals  and  inspect  our  barque,  crew,  and 
equipment  in  a  lofty  manner.  He  would  even  (if 
his  Mate — the  Chief  Officer,  they  called  him — wasn't 
looking)  put  his  hands  in  his  beckets  and  his  tongue 
in  his  cheek.  At  first  we  greeted  his  appearance 
with  exaggerated  respect ;  we  would  stand  to 
attention  and  salute  him  in  style ;  but  latterly, 
his  frequent  appearances  (particularly  as  he  always 
seemed  to  be  there  when  our  Mate  was  recounting 
our  misdeeds,  and  explaining  what  lazy,  loafing, 
ignorant,  and  '  sodgering '  creatures  he  had  to 
handle)  got  on  our  nerves. 

Matters  went  on  in  this  way  for  over  a  week, 
and  everybody  was  getting  tired  of  it ;    not  only 


'TORREADOR'S'  121 

on  our  ship,  for  one  day  we  caught  a  '  Torrea- 
dor '  openly  admiring  our  collection  of  sharks' 
tails  which  we  had  nailed  to  the  jib-boom.  When 
he  found  himself  observed  he  blushed  and  went 
about  some  business,  before  we  had  a  chance  to 
ask  him  aboard  to  see  the  sharks'  backbones — 
fashioned  into  fearsome  walking-sticks.  Up  town 
we  met  them  occasionally,  but  no  one  seemed 
inclined  to  talk,  and  a  '  barley '  was  as  far  away 
as  ever.  If  we  went  to  the  Institute  they  were 
to  be  seen  lolling  all  over  the  sofas  in  the  biJliard- 
room,  smoking  cigarettes,  when,  as  everyone 
knows,  a  briar  pipe  is  the  only  thing  that  goes 
decently  with  a  brass-bound  cap,  tilted  at  the 
right  angle.  They  did  not  seem  to  make  many 
friends,  and  their  talk  among  themselves  was  of 
matters  that  most  apprentices  ignore.  One  night 
Jones  heard  them  rotting  about  '  Great  Circle 
sailing,'  and  '  ice  to  the  south'ard  of  the  Horn,' 
and  subjects  like  that,  when,  properly,  they  ought 
to  be  criticising  their  Old  Man,  and  saying  what 
an  utter  duffer  of  a  Second  Mate  they  had.  Jones 
was  wonderfully  indignant  at  such  talk,  and  couldn't 
sleep  at  night  for  thinking  of  all  the  fine  sarcastic 
remarks  he  might  have  made,  if  he  had  thought 
of  them  at  the  time. 


122        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

When  our  barque,  by  discharge  of  cargo,  was 
risen  in  the  water,  we  were  put  to  send  the  royal- 
yards  down  on  deck,  and  took  it  as  a  great  relief 
from  our  unsailorly  harbour  jobs.  The  '  Torrea- 
dor's,'  with  envious  eyes,  watched  us  reeving  off 
the  yard  ropes.  They  had  a  Naval  Reserve  crew 
aboard  to  do  these  things,  and  their  seamanship 
was  mostly  with  a  model  mast  in  the  half-deck. 
They  followed  all  the  operations  with  interest, 
and  when  Hansen  and  Eccles  got  the  main  royal 
yard  on  deck,  in  record  time,  they  looked  sorry 
that  they  weren't  at  the  doing. 

"  Sumners  "  and  "  Deviation  Curves  "  are  all  very 
well  in  their  way,  but  a  seamanlike  job  aloft,  on  a 
bright  morning,  is  something  stirring  to  begin  the 
day  with.  A  clear  head  to  find  one's  way,  and  a 
sharp  hand  to  unbend  the  gear  and  get  the  yard 
canted  for  lowering ;  then,  with  a  glance  at  the 
fore  (where  fumblers  are  in  difficulties  with  their 
lifts),  the  prideful  hail  to  the  deck,  "  All  clear, 
aloft !    Lower  away  !  " 

No  wonder  the  '  Torreador's '  were  not  satisfied 
with  their  model  mast ! 

Some  days  later  we  got  another  chance  to  show 
them  how  things  were  done  aloft,  and  even  if  we 
were  not  so  smart  at  it  as  we  might  have  been, 


'TORREADOR'S'  123 

still  it  was  a  fairly  creditable  operation  for  some 
boys  and  a  sailorman.  Our  main  topgal'nmast 
was  found  to  be  '  sprung  '  at  the  heel,  and  one 
fine  morning  we  turned-to  to  send  the  yard  and 
mast  down.  This  was  rather  a  big  job  for  us 
who  had  never  handled  but  royal-yards  before ; 
but  under  the  able  instructions  of  the  Mate  and 
Bo'sun,  we  did  our  work  without  any  serious 
digression  from  the  standards  of  seamanship. 
The  Mate  wondered  what  was  making  us  so  un- 
common smart  and  attentive,  but  when  he  caught 
sight  of  the  '  Torreador's  '  watching  our  operations 
with  eager  eyes,  he  understood,  and  even  spurred 
us  on  by  shouting,  "  Mister !  "  (the  boys  of  the 
Torreador  were  thus  addressed  by  their  Officers) 
"  Mister  Hansen,  please  lay  out  'n  the  tops'1-yard, 
'n  unhook  that  bloody  brace  !  " 

At  dusk  the  '  Torreador's  '  had  stiff  necks  with 
looking  aloft  so  much,  and  when  we  knocked  off, 
with  the  yard  and  mast  on  deck,  and  the  gear 
stopped-up,  they  went  below  and  hid  their 
elaborate  model  mast  under  a  bunk  in  the  half- 
deck. 

Soon  after  this  a  better  feeling  began.  Eccles 
met  one  of  the  '  Torreador's '  up-town,  and  an 
acquaintance  was  made.    They  spent  the  evening 


I24        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

together,  and  he  learned  that  the  other  chap 
came  from  near  his  place.  [It  was  really  about 
fifty  miles  from  there,  but  what's  a  fifty  miles 
when  one  is  fourteen  thousand  miles  from  home  ?] 
The  next  evening  two  of  them  came  across.  "  To 
see  the  ship,"  they  said.  They  brought  briar  pipes 
with  them,  which  was  rather  more  than  we  could 
reasonably  have  expected.  Thereafter  nightly 
visits  were  the  rule,  and  we  became  as  thick  as 
thieves.  We  took  them  to  our  bosom,  and  told 
them  of  many  fresh  ways  to  rob  the  store-room, 
though  they  had  no  need  to  go  plundering,  theirs 
being  a  well-found  ship.  We  even  went  the  length 
of  elaborating  a  concerted  and,  as  we  afterwards 
found,  unworkable  scheme  to  get  even  with  a 
certain  policeman  who  had  caught  our  Munro  a 
clip  on  the  arm  with  his  club  when  that  youngster 
was  singing  "  Rule  Britannia  "  along  the  Water 
Front  at  half-past  midnight.  In  the  evenings 
our  respective  commanders  could  be  seen  leaning 
across  their  poop  rails,  engaged  in  genial  conversa- 
tion, addressing  one  another  as  "  Captain "  in 
the  middle  of  each  sentence  with  true  nautical 
punctiliousness. 

Once  the  '  Torreador's  '  Old  Man  seemed  to  be 
propounding  his  views  on  the  training  of  appren- 


'TORREADOR'S'  125 

tices  with  great  earnestness.  What  he  said  we 
could  not  hear,  but  our  Old  Man  replied  that  he 

had  work  enough  " to  get  the  young  '  sodgers  ' 

to  learn  to  splice  a  rope,  cross  a  royal-yard,  and 
steer  the  ship  decently,  let  alone  the  trouble  of 
keeping  them  out  of  the  store-room,"   and  that 

he'd  " nae  doot  but  they'd  learn  navigation 

in  guid  time  !  " 

The  elder  boys  went  picnicing  on  the  Sundays 
to  Cliff  House  or  Saucilito ;  the  second  voyagers 
played  team  billiards  together  at  the  Institute, 
and  proposed  one  another  to  sing  at  the  impromptu 
concerts ;  while  the  young  ones — those  who  had 
only  been  a  dog-watch  at  sea — made  themselves 
sick  smoking  black  tobacco  and  talking  '  ship-talk  ' 
in  the  half-deck. 

Thus  we  fraternised  in  earnest,  and  when  the 
Torreador  left  for  Port  Costa  to  load  for  home 
we  bent  our  best  ensign  (though  it  was  on  a  week- 
day), and  cheered  her  out  of  the  berth. 

Next  week  a  Norwegian  barque  took  up  her 
vacant  place.  She  had  come  out  from  Swansea 
in  ninety-eight  days,  and  was  an  object  of  interest 
for  a  while.  Soon,  though,  we  grew  tired  of  the 
daily  hammering  of  '  stock-fish '  before  breakfast, 
and  the  sight  of  her  Mate  starting  the  windmill 


126        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

pump  when  the  afternoon  breeze  came  away.  We 
longed  for  the  time  when  we,  too,  would  tow  up 
to  Port  Costa,  for  we  had  a  little  matter  of  a  race 
for  ship's  gigs  to  settle  with  the  '  Torreador's '  and 
were  only  waiting  for  our  Captains  to  take  it  up 
and  put  silk  hats  on  the  issue. 


XI 

THE   'CONVALESCENT' 

WELSH  JOHN  was  discharged  from  hospital 
at  ten  on  a  Sunday  morning;  before  dark 
he  was  locked  up,  charged  with  riotous  behaviour 
and  the  assaulting  of  one  Hans  Maartens,  a  Water 
Front  saloon  keeper.  A  matter  of  strong  drink,  a 
weak  head,  and  a  maudlin  argument,  we  thought ; 
but  Hansen  saw  the  hand  of  the  '  crimps '  in  the 
affair,  and  when  we  heard  that  sailormen  were 
scarce  (no  ships  having  arrived  within  a  fortnight), 
we  felt  sure  that  they  were  counting  on  John's 
blood-money  from  an  outward-bound  New  Yorker. 
"  Ye  see,  John  hadn't  money  enough  t'  get 
drunk  on,"  he  said.  "  We  saw  him  in  hospital 
last  Sunday,  an'  Munro  gave  him  a  '  half '  to  pay 
his  cars  down  t'  th'  ship  when  he  came  out.  Half- 
dollars  don't  go  far  in  '  sailor-town.'  I  guess  these 
sharks  have  bin  primin'  him  up  t'  get  'm  shipped 
down  th'  Bay.    The  /.  B.  Grace  has  been  lyin'  at 

127 


128        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

anchor  off  The  Presidio,  with  her  '  Blue  Peter ' 
up  this  last  week  or  more,  an'  nobody  's  allowed 
aboard  'r  ashore  but  Daly  an'  his  gang.  Maartens 
is  in  with  'em,  an'  the  whole  thing  's  a  plant  to 
shanghai  John.  Drunk  or  no'  drunk,  John  's  seen 
th'  game,  an'  plugged  th'  Dutchman  for  a  start." 

As  it  was  on  Munro's  account  that  he  had  come 
by  the  injuries  that  put  him  in  hospital,  we  felt 
more  than  a  passing  interest  in  John's  case,  and 
decided  to  get  him  clear  of  the  'crimps'  if  we  could. 
We  knew  he  would  be  fined,  for  saloon-keepers 
and  boarding-masters  are  persons  of  weight  and 
influence  in  'Frisco  town,  and,  although  John  had 
nearly  eight  months'  pay  due  to  him,  it  would  be 
considered  a  weakness,  a  sort  of  confession  of 
Jack's  importance,  for  the  Captain  to  disburse  on 
his  account.  It  being  the  beginning  of  a  week,  we 
could  only  muster  a  few  dollars  among  us,  so  we 
applied  to  James  Peden,  a  man  of  substance  on 
the  Front,  for  assistance  and  advice. 

James  was  from  Dundee.  After  a  varied  career 
as  seaman,  whaleman,  boarding-house  keeper,  gold 
seeker,  gravedigger,  and  beach-comber,  he  had 
taken  to  decent  ways  and  now  acted  as  head- 
foreman  to  a  firm  of  stevedores.  He  was  an  office- 
bearer of  the  local  Scottish  Society,  talked  braid 


THE    'CONVALESCENT'         129 

Scots  on  occasions  (though  his  command  of  Yankee 
slang  when  stimulating  his  men  in  the  holds  was 
finely  complete),  and  wore  a  tartan  neck-tie  that 
might  aptly  be  called  a  gathering  of  the  clans. 

To  James  we  stated  our  case  when  he  came 
aboard  to  see  that  his  '  boy-ees  made  things  hum.' 
It  was  rather  a  delicate  matter  to  do  this  properly, 
as  we  had  to  leave  it  to  inference  that  James's 
knowledge  of  these  matters  was  that  of  a  reputable 
foreman  stevedore,  and  not  that  of  a  quondam 
boarding-master  whose  exploits  in  the  '  crimping  ' 
business  were  occasionally  referred  to  when  men 
talked,  with  a  half-laugh,  of  shady  doings.  It 
was  nicely  done,  though,  and  James,  recalling  a 
parallel  case  that  occurred  to  a  man,  "  whom  he 
knew,"  was  pessimistic. 

"  Weel,  lauds,  Ah  guess  Joan  Welsh  'r  Welsh 
Joan  '11  be  ootward  bound  afore  the  morn's  nicht. 
They'll  pit  'm  up  afore  Judge  Kelly,  a  bluidy  Fenian, 
wha'll  gie  'm  '  ten  dollars  or  fourteen  days '  fur 
bein'  a  British  sailorman  alane.  Pluggin'  a  Dutch- 
man 's  naethin' ;  it's  th'  '  Rid  Rag  '  that  Kelly's 
doon  oan.  Ah  ken  the  swine ;  he  touched  me 
twinty  dollars  fur  gie'n  a  winchman  a  clout  i' 
the  lug — an  ill-faured  Dago  wi'  a  haun'  on  's 
knife.     Ah  guess  there's  nae  chance  for  a  lime- 


i3o        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

juicer  up-bye,  an'  ye  may  take  it  that  yer  man  '11 
be  fined.  Noo,  withoot  sayin'  ony  mair  aboot 
it,  ye  ken  fine  that  yer  Captain  's  no'  gaun  tae 
pey  't.  Wi'  nae  sicht  o'  a  charter  an'  th'  chances 
o'  's  ship  bein'  laid  bye  fur  a  whilie,  he'll  no'  be 
wantin'  mair  men  aboard,  'n  Ahm  thinkin'  he'll  no' 
be  sorry  tae  see  th'  last  o'  this  Joan  Welsh.  This  is 
whaur  Daly  '11  come  in.  He'll  offer  t'  pey  th'  fine, 
an'  yer  man,  wi'  seeven  weeks'  hospital  ahint  'm, 
an'  the  prospeck  o'  a  fortnicht's  jile  afore  'm,  '11 
jump  at  th'  chance  o'  a  spree.  Daly  '11  pey  th' 
fine,  gae  yer  man  a  nicht's  rope  fur  a  maddenin' 
drunk,  an'  ship  'm  on  th'  New-Yorker  i'  th'  mornin'. 
There's  nae  help  for't ;  that's  th'  wey  they  dae 
things  oot  here  ;  unless  maybe  ye'd  pey  th'  fine 
yersels  ?  " 

This  was  our  opportunity,  and  Munro  asked  for 
a  loan  till  next  week.  He  explained  the  state  of 
our  purses  and  the  uselessness  of  applying  to  the 
Captain  so  early  in  the  week  ;  James  was  dubious. 
Munro  urged  the  case  in  homely  Doric  ;  James, 
though  pleased  to  hear  the  old  tongue,  was  still 
hesitating  when  Munro  skilfully  put  a  word  of 
the  Gaelic  here  and  there.  A  master  move  !  James 
was  highly  flattered  at  our  thinking  he  had  the 
Gaelic  (though  never  a  word  he  knew),  and  when 


THE   'CONVALESCENT'         131 

Munro  brought  a  torrent  of  liquid  vowels  into  the 
appeal,  James  was  undone.  The  blood  of  the 
Standard  Bearer  of  the  Honourable  Order  of  the 
Scottish  Clans  coursed  proudly  through  his  veins, 
and,  readjusting  his  tartan  necktie,  he  parted  with 
fifteen  dollars  on  account. 

Now  a  difficulty  arose.  It  being  a  working  day, 
none  of  us  would  get  away  to  attend  the  Court.  We 
thought  of  Old  Martin,  the  night  watchman.  As 
he  slept  soundly  during  three-fifths  of  his  night 
watch,  it  was  no  hardship  for  the  old  '  shellback ' 
to  turn  out,  but  he  wasn't  in  the  best  of  tempers 
when  we  wakened  him  and  asked  his  assistance. 

"  Yew  boys  thinks  nuthin'  ov  roustin'  a  man 
out,  as  'as  bin  on  watch  awl  night."  (Martin 
was  stretched  out  like  a  jib  downhaul,  sound 
asleep  on  the  galley  floor,  when  we  had  come 
aboard  on  Sunday  night).  "  Thinks  nuthin'  at 
awl  ov  callin'  a  man  w'en  ye  ain't  got  no  damn 
business  to.  .  .  .  W'en  Ah  was  a  boy,  it  was 
ropesendin'  fer  scratchin'  a  match  in  fo'cas'le,  'n 
hell's-hidin'  fer  speakin'  in  a  Dago's  whisper  !  " 
— Martin  sullenly  stretched  out  for  his  pipe,  ever 
his   first   move   on   waking — "  Nowadays  boys  is 

men  an'  men   's  old. W'y  " — Martin  waved 

his   little   black   pipe   accusingly — "  taint   only   t* 


132        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

other  day  w'en  that  there  Jones  lays  out  'n  th' 
tawps'l  yardarm  afore  me  'n  mittens  th'  bloody 
earin'  's  if  awl  th'  sailormen  wos  dead !  "  His 
indignation  was  great,  his  growls  long  and  deep, 
but  at  last  he  consented  to  do  our  errand — "  tho' 
ain't  got  no  use  for  that  damned  Welshman  me- 
self  !  " 

Arrayed  in  his  pilot  cloth  suit,  with  a  sailorlike 
felt  hat  perched  rakish  on  his  hard  old  head,  old 
Martin  set  out  with  our  fifteen  dollars  in  his  pocket, 
and  his  instructions,  to  pay  John's  fine  and  steer 
clear  of  the  '  crimps.'  We  had  misgivings  as  to  the 
staunchness  of  our  messenger,  but  we  had  no 
other,  and  it  was  with  some  slight  relief  that  we 
watched  him  pass  the  nearest  saloon  with  only 
a  wave  of  his  arm  to  the  bar-keeper  and  tramp 
sturdily  up  the  street  towards  the  City. 

At  dinner-time  neither  John  nor  Old  Martin  had 
rejoined  the  ship.  We  thought,  with  misgiving, 
that  a  man  with  fifteen  dollars  in  his  becket  would 
be  little  likely  to  remember  the  miserly  meal  pro- 
vided by  the  ship,  and  even  Browne  (the  Mark 
Tapley  of  our  half-deck)  said  he  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  the  '  crimps '  had  got  both  John  and  Old 
Martin  (to  say  nothing  of  our  fifteen  dollars).  As 
the  day  wore  on  we  grew  anxious,  but  at  last  we 


THE   « CONVALESCENT'         133 

got  news  of  the  absentees  when  Peden  passed, 
on  his  way  out  to  the  Bay.  The  sentimental 
Scotsman  of  the  morning  had  thought  a  lot  after 
his  liberal  response  to  Munro's  appeal,  and  had 
called  round  at  the  Police  Court  to  see  that  the 
affair  was  genuine.  He  was  now  in  his  right  senses  ; 
a  man  of  rock,  not  to  be  moved  even  by  a  mention 
of  Burns's  '  Hielan'  Mary,'  his  tartan  tie  had 
slipped  nearly  out  of  sight  beneath  the  collar  of  his 
coat,  and  the  hard,  metallic  twang  of  his  voice 
would  have  exalted  a  right  '  down-easter.' 

"  Yewr  man  was  '  up '  w'en  Ah  got  raound," 
he  said,  "  up  before  Kelly,  's  Ah  reckoned.  Ah 
didn't  hear  the  chyarge,  but  thyar  was  th'  Dutch- 
man with  's  head  awl  bandaged  up — faked  up,  Ah 
guess.  Th'  Jedge  ses  t'  th'  prisoner,  '  Did  yew 
strike  this  man  ?  '  Yewr  man  answers,  '  Inteed 
to  goodness,  yer  'anner,  he  looks  's  if  somebody 
'd  struck  'm  ! '  Wi'  that  a  laugh  wint  raound, 
an'  yewr  man  tells  's  story."  (James's  Doric  was 
returning  to  him,  and  the  twang  of  his  "  u's " 
became  less  pronounced.)  "  He  had  bin  in  hos- 
pital, he  said,  wasn't  very  strong — here  th'  Dutch- 
man looks  up,  wonderin'  like — had  ta'en  a  drap 
o'  drink  wi'  a  man  he  met  in  'sailor-town.'  There 
wis   talk  aboot  a  joab  ashore,  an'  they  were  in 


134        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

Mertin's  tae  see  aboot  it,  an'  yer  man  sees  this 
Mertin  pit  somethin'  i'  th'  drink.  He  didna  like 
the  looks  o't,  he  said,  so  he  ups  an'  gies  Mertin 
yin  on  th'  heid  wi'  a  '  schooner  '  gless.  That  wis 
a'  he  kent  aboot  it,  an'  th'  Dutchman  begood  his 
yarn.  Oot  o'  his  kind-hertedness,  he'd  gie'n  th' 
pris'ner  a  gless  or  twa,  fower  at  th'  maist,  when  th' 
thankless  villain  ups  an'  ca's  'm  names  an'  belts 
'm  on  th'  heid  wi'  a  gless.  '  Pit  drugs  i'  th'  drink  ?  ' 
Naethin'  o'  th'  kind  !  He  wis  jist  takin'  a  fly  oot 
o't  wi'  the  haunle  o'  a  spune. 

"  A  bad  business,  says  Kelly,  a  bad  business  ! 
There's  faur  too  miny  av  thim  British  sailormin 
makin'  trouble  on  th'  Front.  It's  tin  dallars,  says 
he,  tin  dallars  'r  fourteen  days  ! 

"  Ah  saw  Daly  git  up  frae  th'  sate  an'  he  his  a 
long  confab  wi'  yer  man,  but  jist  then  yer  auld 
watchman  tramps  in,  an'  efter  speirin'  aboot  he 
ups  an'  peys  th'  fine,  an'  they  let  yer  man  oot. 
Ah  seen  th'  twa  o'  them  gang  aff  wi'  Daly,  an'  Ah 
couldna  verra  weel  ha'e  onythin'  tae  dae  wi'  them 
when  he  wis  bye." 

This  was  James's  news ;  he  was  not  surprised  to 
learn  that  they  had  not  returned  to  the  ship,  and, 
as  he  passed  on,  on  his  way  to  the  jetty  steps, 
muttered,  "  Weel,  it's  a  gey  peety  they  had  that 


THE   'CONVALESCENT'        135 

five  dollars  ower  much,  for  Ah  doot  they'll  baith 
be  under  th'  '  Blue  Peter '  before  th'  morn's 
mornin'." 

When  we  knocked  off  for  the  day  we  were  soon 
ashore  looking  for  the  wanderers,  and  early  found 
plain  evidence  that  they  had  been  celebrating  John's 
'  convalescence  '  and  release.  An  Italian  orange- 
seller  whom  we  met  had  distinct  memory  of  two 
seafaring  gentlemen  purchasing  oranges  and  play- 
ing '  bowls  '  with  them  in  the  gutter  of  a  busy 
street ;  a  Jewish  outfitter  and  his  assistants  were 
working  well  into  the  night,  rearranging  oilskins 
and  sea-boots  on  the  ceiling  of  a  disordered  shop, 
and  a  Scandinavian  dame,  a  vendor  of  peanuts, 
had  a  tale  of  strange  bargainings  to  tell. 

Unable  to  find  them,  we  returned  to  the  ship. 
One  of  us  had  to  keep  Martin's  watch,  and  the 
Mate  was  already  on  the  track  of  the  affair  with 
threatenings  of  punishment  for  the  absent  watch- 
man. 

About  ten  we  heard  a  commotion  on  the  dock 
side,  and  looked  over  to  see  the  wanderers,  accom- 
panied by  all  the  '  larrikins'  of  '  sailor-town,'  making 
for  the  ship.  Two  policemen  in  the  near  back- 
ground were  there  to  see  that  no  deliberate  breach- 
of-the-peace  took  place. 


136        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Martin,  hard-headed  Old  Martin,  who  stood 
drink  better  than  the  Welshman,  was  singing 
'  Bound  away  to  the  West'ard  in  th'  Dreadnought  we 
go '  in  the  pipingest  of  trebles,  and  Welsh  John, 
hardly  able  to  stand,  was  defying  the  Dutch, 
backed  by  numberless  Judge  Kellys,  and  inviting 
them  to  step  up,  take  off  their  jackets  and  come  on. 


XII 

ON  THE   SACRAMENTO 

A  FTER  our  cargo  was  discharged  we  left  Mission 
■**■  Wharf  for  an  anchorage  in  the  Bay,  and  there 
— swinging  flood  and  ebb — we  lay  in  idleness. 
There  were  many  ships  in  the  anchorage,  and  many 
more  laid  up  at  Martinez  and  Saucilito,  for  the 
year's  crop  was  not  yet  to  hand,  and  Masters  were 
hanging  back  for  a  rise  in  freights.  There  we  lay, 
idle  ships,  while  the  summer  sun  ripened  the  crops 
and  reared  the  golden  grain  for  the  harvest — the 
harvest  that  we  waited  to  carry  round  the  roaring 
Horn  to  Europe.  Daily  we  rowed  the  Old  Man 
ashore,  and  when  he  returned  from  the  Agent's 
office,  we  could  tell  by  the  way  he  took  a  request 
(say,  for  a  small  advance  "  to  buy  a  knife  ")  that 
our  ship  was  still  unchartered,  and  likely  to  be  so 
for  some  time. 

To  a  convenient  wharf  the  gigs  of  each  ship  came 
every  morning,  and  from  then  to  untold  hours  of 

i37 


138        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  night  the  jetty  steps  were  well  worn  by  comings 
and  goings.  Some  of  the  Captains  (the  man-driv- 
ing ones,  who  owed  no  man  a  moment)  used  to 
send  their  boats  back  to  the  ship  as  soon  as  they 
landed,  but  a  number  kept  theirs  at  the  wharf 
in  case  messages  had  to  be  sent  off.  We  usually 
hung  around  at  the  jetty,  where  there  were  fine 
wooden  piles  that  we  could  carve  our  barque's 
name  on  when  our  knives  were  sharp  enough. 
With  the  boats'  crews  from  other  ships  we  could 
exchange  news  and  opinions,  and  quarrel  over  points 
in  seamanship. 

Those  amongst  us  who  had  often  voyaged  to 
'Frisco,  and  others  who  had  been  long  in  the  port, 
were  looked  upon  as  '  oracles,'  and  treated  with 
considerable  respect.  The  Many  down  had  been 
sixteen  months  in  'Frisco,  and  her  boys  could  easily 
have  passed  muster  as  Americans.  They  chewed 
sweet  tobacco  ("  malassus  kyake,"  they  called  it), 
and  swore  Spanish  oaths  with  freedom  and  abandon. 
Their  gig  was  by  far  the  finest  and  smartest  at  the 
jetty,  and  woe  betide  the  unwitting  '  bow '  who 
touched  her  glossy  varnished  side  with  his  boat- 
hook.  For  him  a  wet  swab  was  kept  in  readiness, 
and  their  stroke,  a  burly  ruffian,  was  always  willing 
to  attend  to  the  little  affair  if  it  went  any  farther. 


ON   THE   SACRAMENTO        139 

Our  Captains  came  down  in  batches,  as  a  rule, 
and  there  would  be  great  clatter  of  oars  and  ship- 
ping of  rowlocks  as  their  boats  hauled  alongside 
to  take  them  off.  Rivalry  was  keen,  and  many 
were  the  gallant  races  out  to  the  anchorage, 
with  perhaps  a  little  sum  at  stake  just  for  the 
honour  of  the  ship. 

We  had  about  a  month  of  this,  and  it  was  daily 
becoming  more  difficult  to  find  a  decently  clear 
space  on  the  piles  on  which  to  carve  '  Florence,  of 
Glasgow.'  One  day  the  Old  Man  returned  at  an 
unusual  hour,  and  it  was  early  evident  that  some- 
thing was  afoot ;  he  was  too  preoccupied  to  curse 
Hansen  properly  for  being  away  from  the  boat 
on  business  of  his  own,  and,  instead  of  criticising 
our  stroke  and  telling  us  what  rotten  rowers  we 
were,  as  was  his  wont,  he  busied  himself  with 
letters  and  papers.  We  put  off  to  the  ship  in 
haste,  and  soon  the  news  went  round  that  we 
were  going  up-river  to  Port  Costa,  to  load  for 
home.  Old  Joe  Niven  was  the  medium  through 
whom  all  news  filtered  from  the  cabin,  and  from 
him  we  had  the  particulars  even  down  to  the 
amount  of  the  freight.  We  felt  galled  that  a  German 
barque,  which  had  gone  up  a  week  before,  was 
getting   two   and   twopence-ha'penny    more ;    but 


i4o        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

we  took  consolation  in  the  thought  of  what  a  fine 
crow  we  would  have  over  the  '  Torreador's,'  who 
were  only  loading  at  forty-five  and  sixpence,  direct 
to  Hull. 

On  board  we  only  mustered  hands  enough  to  do 
the  ordinary  harbour  work,  and  raising  the  heavy 
anchors  was  a  task  beyond  us  ;  so  at  daybreak 
next  morning  we  rowed  round  the  ships  to  collect 
a  crew.  The  other  Captains  had  promised  our 
Old  Man  a  hand,  here  and  there,  and  when  we 
pulled  back  we  had  men  enough,  lusty  and  willing, 
to  kedge  her  up  a  hill. 

There  was  mist  on  the  water  when  we  started 
to  '  clear  hawse ' — the  thick,  clammy  mist  that 
comes  before  a  warm  day.  About  us  bells  clattered 
on  the  ships  at  anchor,  and  steamers  went  slowly 
by  with  a  hiss  of  waste  steam  that  told  of  a  ready 
hand  on  the  levers.  Overhead,  the  sky  was  bright 
with  the  promise  of  a  glorious  day,  but  with  no 
mind  to  lift  the  pall  from  the  water,  it  looked  ill 
for  a  ready  passage.  We  had  four  turns  of  a  foul 
hawse  to  clear  (the  track  of  a  week's  calms),  and 
our  windlass  was  of  a  very  ancient  type,  but  our 
scratch  crew  worked  well  and  handy,  and  we  were 
ready  for  the  road  when  the  screw  tug  Escort  laid 
alongside  and  lashed  herself  up  to  our  quarter. 


ON   THE   SACRAMENTO        141 

They  tow  that  way  on  the  Pacific  Coast — the  wily 
ones  know  the  advantage  of  having  a  ship's  length 
in  front  of  them  to  brush  away  the  '  snags.' 

A  light  breeze  took  the  mist '  'way  down  under,' 
and  we  broke  the  weather  anchor  out  with  the 
rousing  chorus  of  an  old  sea  song  : 

Old  Storm-along,  he's  dead  a-an'  gone, 

(To  my  way-ay,  Storm- alo-ong ;) 
O-old  Storm-along,  he's  dead  a-an'  gone, 

(Aye I  Aye!  Aye!  Mister  Storm-along.) 

Some  friends  of  the  Captain  had  boarded  us 
from  the  tug,  eager  for  the  novelty  of  a  trip  up- 
river  in  a  real  Cape  Horner.  One  elderly  lady 
was  so  charmed  by  our  '  chantey,'  that  she  wanted 
the  Captain  to  make  us  sing  it  over  again.  She 
wondered  when  he  told  her  that  that  was  one 
thing  he  could  not  do.  With  the  rare  and  privileged 
sight  of  frocks  on  the  poop,  there  was  a  lot  of  talk 
about  who  should  go  to  the  wheel.  Jones  worked 
himself  into  it,  and  laid  aft  in  a  clean  rig  when 
the  Old  Man  called  for  a  hand  to  the  wheel.  There 
he  made  the  most  of  it,  and  hung  gracefully  over 
the  spokes  with  his  wrists  turned  out  to  show  the 
tattoo  marks. 

The  skipper  of  the  tug  came  aboard  our  ship 


i42        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

to  pilot  up  the  river,  and  he  directed  the  move- 
ments of  his  own  vessel  from  our  poop  deck.  We 
passed  under  the  guns  of  rocky  Alcatraz,  and  stood 
over  to  the  wooded  slopes  and  vineyards  of  Saucilito, 
where  many  '  laid-up '  ships  were  lying  at  the 
buoys,  with  upper  yards  down  and  huge  ballast 
booms  lashed  alongside.  Here  we  turned  sharply 
to  the  norrard  and  bore  up  the  broad  bosom  of 
Sacramento — the  river  that  sailormen  make  songs 
about,  the  river  that  flows  over  a  golden  bed. 
Dull,  muddy  water  flowing  swiftly  seawards ; 
straight  rip  in  the  channel,  and  a  race  where  the 
high  banks  are ;  a  race  that  the  Greek  fisher- 
men show  holy  pictures  to,  when  the  springs  are 
flowing  ! 

With  us,  the  tide  was  light  enough,  and  our 
Pilot  twisted  her  about  with  the  skill  and  non- 
chalance of  a  master  hand.  One  of  our  passengers, 
a  young  woman  who  had  enthused  over  everything, 
from  the  shark's  tail  on  the  spanker-boom  end 
("  Waal — I  never !  ")  to  the  curl  of  the  bo'sun's 
whiskers  ("  Jest  real  sweet !  "),  seemed  greatly 
interested  at  the  frequent  orders  to  the  steers- 
man. 

"  Sa-ay,  Pilot !  "  she  said,  "  Ah  guess  yew  must 
know  every  rock  'bout  hyar  ?  " 


ON   THE   SACRAMENTO        143 

"  Wa-al,  no,  Miss,  ah  kyan't  say  's  Ah  dew," 
answered  Palinurus  ;  "  but  Ah  reckon  tew  know 
whar  th'  deep  wa-r-r  is  !  " 

As  we  approached  the  shallows  at  the  head  of 
San  Pablo  Bay,  the  Old  Man  expressed  an  opinion 
as  to  the  lack  of  water,  and  the  Pilot  again  pro- 
vided a  jest  for  the  moment. 

"  Oh,  that's  awl  right,  Cap.  ;  she's  only  drawin' 
twelve  feet,  'n  Ah  kin  tak'  'r  over  a  damp  meadow 
'n  this  trim  !  " 

We  met  a  big  stern-wheel  ferry  bound  down 
from  Benicia  with  a  load  of  freight  wagons.  She 
looked  like  an  important  junction  adrift.  Afterwards 
we  saw  a  full-rigged  ship  towing  down,  and  when 
near  we  made  her  out  to  be  the  Torreador,  ready 
for  sea.  This  was  a  great  disappointment  to  us, 
for  we  had  looked  forward  to  being  with  her  at 
Port  Costa.  Now,  our  long-dreamt-of  boat-race 
was  off  (with  our  boat's  crew  in  first-class  trim,  too  !), 
and  amid  the  cheering  as  we  met  and  passed  on, 
we  heard  a  shrill  and  unmistakable  '  cock-a-doodle- 
doo  !  '  which  we  remembered  with  indignation 
for  many  a  day.  Tall  and  stately  she  looked, 
with  her  flags  a-peak  and  everything  in  trim  : 
yards  all  aloft,  and  squared  to  an  inch,  and  her 
sails   rolled   up   without   crease   like   the   dummy 


i44        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

covers  on  the  booms  of  a  King's  yacht.  A  gallant 
ship,  and  a  credit  to  the  flag  she  flew. 

We  passed  many  floating  tree  trunks  and  branches 
in  the  river.  The  snows  had  come  away  from  the 
Sierras,  and  there  was  spate  on  Sacramento.  We 
rode  over  one  of  the  '  snags '  with  a  shudder,  and 
all  our  jack-easy  Pilot  said  was,  "  Guess  that'll 
take  some  'f  th'  barnacles  off  'r  battum,  bettr'r 
a  week's  sojerin'  with  the  patent  scrubber !  "  All 
the  same  he  took  very  good  care  that  his  own 
craft  rode  free  of  obstruction. 

Rounding  a  bend,  we  came  in  sight  of  our  ren- 
dezvous, but  Port  Costa  showed  little  promise 
from  the  water-side,  though  the  sight  of  our  old 
friends,  the  Crocodile,  the  Peleus,  and  the  Drumeltan, 
moored  at  the  wharf  cheered  us.  Two  or  three 
large  mills,  with  a  cluster  of  white  houses  about, 
composed  the  township ;  a  large  raft-like  ferry 
which  carried  the  'Frisco  mail  trains  bodily  across 
the  river  contributed  to  its  importance,  but  there 
was  nothing  else  about  the  place  to  excite  the  re- 
mark of  even  an  idle  'prentice  boy. 

A  little  way  up-stream  was  a  town,  indeed  ;  a 
town  of  happy  memories.  Benicia,  with  its  vine- 
yards and  fruit  gardens,  and  the  low,  old  houses, 
alone  perhaps  in  all  California  to  tell  of  Spain's 


ON   THE    SACRAMENTO        145 

dominion.  A  town  of  hearty,  hospitable  folk,  un- 
affected by  the  hustle  of  larger  cities  •  a  people 
of  peace  and  patience,  the  patience  of  tillers  of 
the  vine. 

Off  Martinez,  where  the  river  is  wide,  we  canted 
ship,  and  worked  back  to  Port  Costa  against  the 
tide.  We  made  fast  at  the  ballast  wharf,  and  our 
borrowed  crew,  having  completed  their  job,  laid 
aft  to  receive  the  Captain's  blessing,  and  a  silver 
dollar  to  put  in  their  pockets.  Then  they  boarded 
the  tug,  and  were  soon  on  their  way  back  to  'Frisco. 

When  Jones  came  from  the  wheel,  he  had  great 
tales  to  tell  of  the  attentions  the  ladies  had  paid 
him.  He  plainly  wished  us  to  understand  that 
he'd  made  an  impression,  but  we  knew  that  was 
not  the  way  of  it,  for  Old  Niven  had  told  Eccles 
that  the  pretty  one  was  engaged  to  be  married 
to  the  ship's  butcher,  down  in  'Frisco,  a  fairy 
Dutchman  of  about  fifteen  stone  six. 


XIII 

HOMEWARD 

T  N    a    Sunday    morning,   while    Benicia's    bells 

-*•    were    chiming    for    early    Mass,    we    cast   off 

from  the  wharf  at  Port  Costa  and  towed  down 

Sacramento.     Though  loaded  and  in  sea  trim,  we 

were  still  short  of  a  proper  crew,  so  we  brought  up 

in  'Frisco  Bay  to  complete  our  complement. 

Days   passed   and    the   boarding-masters    could 

give  us  no  more  than  two  '  rancheros  '  (who  had 

once  seen  the  sea  from  Sonoma  Heights),  and  a 

young  coloured  man,  a  sort  of  a  seaman,  who  had 

just  been  discharged  from  Oakland  Jail.    The  Old 

Man  paid  daily  visits  to  the  Consul,  who  could  do 

nothing — there  were  no   men.     He  went   to   the 

boarding-houses,  and  had  to  put  up  with  coarse 

familiarity,   to   drink  beer  with  the  scum  of  all 

nations,  to  clap  scoundrels  on  the  back  and  tell 

them  what  sly  dogs  they  were.     It  was  all  of  no 

use.    The  ■  crimps  '  were  crippled — there  were  no 

men. 

146 


HOMEWARD 


Facing  page  146 


HOMEWARD  147 

"  Wa-al,  Cap.,"  Daly  would  say  to  the  Old  Man's 
complaint,  "  what  kin  we  dew  ?  I  guess  we 
kyan't  make  men,  same's  yewr  bo'sin  'ud  make 
spunyarn.  .  .  .  Ain't  bin  a  darned  soul  in  this 
haouse  fer  weeks  as  cud  tell  a  clew  from  a  crojeck. 
Th'  ships  is  hangin'  on  ter  ther  men  like  ole  blue  ! 
Captens  is  a-given'  em  chickens  an'  soft-tack, 
be  gosh,  an'  dollars  fer  '  a  drunk  '  on  Sundays.  .  .  . 
When  they  turns  'em  to,  it's,  '  Naow,  lads,  me 
boys !  When  yew'r  ready,  me  sons ! '  ...  A 
month  a-gone  it  was,  '  Out,  ye  swine  !  Turn  aout, 
damn  ye,  an'  get  a  move  on  ! '  .  .  .  Ah,  times  is 
bad,  Cap.  ;  times  is  damn  bad  !  I  ain't  fingered 
an  advance  note  since  th'  Dharwar  sailed — a 
fortnight  ago  !  Hard  times,  I  guess,  an'  we  kyan't 
club  'em  aboard,  same's  we  use  ter  !  " 

A  hopeless  quest,  indeed,  looking  for  sailormen 
ashore ;  but  ships  were  expected,  and  when  the 
wind  was  in  the  West  the  Old  Man  would  be  up 
on  deck  at  daybreak,  peering  out  towards  the 
Golden  Gate,  longing  for  the  glad  sight  of  an  in- 
ward bounder,  that  would  bring  the  sorely  needed 
sailors  in  from  the  sea. 

A  week  passed,  a  week  of  fine  weather,  with  two 
days  of  a  rattling  nor'west  wind  that  would  have 
sent  us  on  our  way,  free  of  the  land,  with  a  smother 


148        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

of  foam  under  the  bows.  All  lost  to  us,  for  no 
ships  came  in,  and  we  lay  at  anchor,  swinging  ebb 
and  flood — a  useless  hull  and  fabric,  without  a 
crew  to  spread  the  canvas  and  swing  the  great 
yards ! 

Every  morning  the  Mate  would  put  the  windlass 
in  gear  and  set  everything  in  readiness  for  breaking 
out  the  anchor ;  but  when  we  saw  no  tug  putting 
off,  and  no  harbour  cat-boats  tacking  out  from 
the  shore  with  sailors'  bags  piled  in  the  bows,  he 
would  undo  the  morning's  work  and  put  us  to 
'  stand-by  '  jobs  on  the  rigging.  There  were  other 
loaded  ships  in  as  bad  a  plight  as  we.  The  Drumeltan 
was  eight  hands  short  of  her  crew  of  twenty-six, 
and  the  Captain  of  the  Peleus  was  considering  the 
risk  of  setting  off  for  the  Horn,  short-handed  by 
three.  Sailors'  wages  were  up  to  thirty  and  thirty- 
five  dollars  a  month,  and  at  that  (nearly  the  wage  of 
a  Chief  Mate  of  a  '  limejuicer ')  there  were  no  proper 
able  seamen  coming  forward.  Even  the  '  hobos  ' 
and  ne'er-do-weels,  who  usually  flock  at  'Frisco 
on  the  chance  of  getting  a  ship's  passage  out  of  the 
country,  seemed  to  be  lying  low. 

One  evening  the  ship  Blackadder  came  in  from 
sea.  She  was  from  the  Colonies  ;  had  made  a  long 
passage,  and  was  spoken  of  as  an  extra  '  hungry ' 


HOMEWARD  149 

ship — and  her  crew  were  in  a  proper  spirit  of  dis- 
content. She  anchored  near  us,  and  the  Old  Man 
gazed  longingly  at  the  fine  stout  colonials  who 
manned  her.  He  watched  the  cat-boats  putting 
off  from  the  shore,  and  smiled  at  the  futile  attempts 
of  the  ship's  Captain  and  Mates  to  keep  the '  crimps  ' 
from  boarding.  If  one  was  checked  at  the  gang- 
way, two  clambered  aboard  by  the  head,  and  the 
game  went  merrily  on. 

"  Where's  she  from,  Mister  ?  "  said  the  Old  Man 
to  the  Mate  who  stood  with  him.    "  Did  ye  hear  ?  " 

"  Newcastle,  New  South  Wales,  I  heard,"  said 
Mr.  Hollins.  "  Sixty-five  days  out,  the  butcher 
said ;  him  that  came  off  with  the  stores  this  morn- 
mg. 

"  Sixty-five,  eh  !  Thirty  o'  that  for  a  '  dead 
horse,'  an'  there'll  be  about  six  pound  due  the 
men ;  a  matter  o'  four  or  five  pound  wi'  slop 
chest  an'  that !  They'll  not  stop,  Mister,  damn 
the  one  o'  them '  .  .  .  Ah,  there  they  go  ;  there 
they  go  !  "  Sailors'  bags  were  being  loaded  into 
the  cat-boats.    It  was  the  case  of : 

The  grub  was  bad,  an'  th'  wages  low, 
An'  it's  time — for  us — t'  leave  'r  I 

"  Good  business  for  us,  anyway,"  said  the  Old 


150        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

Man,  and  told  the  Mate  to  get  his  windlass  ready 
for  '  heaving  up  '  in  the  morning. 

Alas  !  he  left  the  other  eager  shipmasters  out  of 
his  count.  The  Captain  of  the  Drumeltan  raised 
the  '  blood-money  '  to  an  unheard-of  sum,  and  two 
days  later  towed  out  to  sea,  though  the  wind  was 
W.S.W.  beyond  the  Straits — a  '  dead  muzzier  '  ! 

A  big  American  ship — the  /.  B.  Flint — was  one 
of  the  fleet  of  'waiters.'  She  was  for  China.  '  Bully' 
Nathan  was  Captain  of  her  (a  man  who  would  have 
made  the  starkest  of  pirates,  if  he  had  lived  in 
pirate  times),  and  many  stories  of  his  and  his 
Mates'  brutality  were  current  at  the  Front.  No 
seaman  would  sign  in  the  Flint  if  he  had  the  choice  ; 
but  the  choice  lay  with  the  boarding-master  when 
'  Bully  '  Nathan  put  up  the  price. 

"  Give  me  gravediggers  or  organ-grinders,  boys, 
if  ye  kyan't  get  sailormen,"  he  was  reported  to  have 
said.  "  Anything  with  two  hands  an'  feet.  I 
guess  I'm  Jan — K. — Nathan,  and  they'll  be  sailor- 
men  or  '  stiffs  '  before  we  reach  aout !  "  No  one 
knew  where  she  got  a  crew,  but  while  the  Britishers 
were  awaiting  semi-lawful  service,  Jan  K.  slipped 
out  through  the  night,  getting  the  boarding-house 
runners  to  set  sail  for  him  before  they  left  the 
Flint  with  her  crew  of  drugged  longshoremen.    At 


HOMEWARD  151 

the  end  of  the  week  we  got  three  more  men.  Granger, 
a  Liverpool  man,  who  had  been  working  in  the 
Union  Ironworks,  and,  "  sick  o'  th'  beach,"  as  he 
put  it,  wanted  to  get  back  to  sea  again.  Pat  Hogan, 
a  merry-faced  Irishman,  who  signed  as  cook  (much 
to  the  joy  of  Houston,  who  had  been  the  '  food 
spoiler '  since  McEwan  cleared) .  The  third  was  a 
lad,  Cutler,  a  runaway  apprentice,  who  had  been 
working  ashore  since  his  ship  had  sailed.  It  was 
said  that  he  had  been  '  conducting '  a  tramcar  to 
his  own  immediate  profit  and  was  anxious.  We 
were  still  six  hands  short,  but,  on  the  morning  after 
a  Yankee  clipper  came  in  from  New  York,  we  towed 
out — with  three  prostrate  figures  lying  huddled 
among  the  raffle  in  the  fo'cas'le. 


We  raised  the  anchor  about  midnight  and  dawn 
found  us  creeping  through  the  Golden  Gate  in  the 
wake  of  a  panting  tug.  There  was  nothing  to  see, 
for  the  morning  mist  was  over  the  Straits,  and 
we  had  no  parting  view  of  the  harbour.  The  siren 
on  Benita  Point  roared  a  raucous  warning  as  we 
felt  our  way  past  the  Head ;  and  that,  for  us,  was 
the  last  of  the  land. 

When  we  reached  the  schooner  and  discharged 


152        THE  BRASSBOUNDER 

our  Pilot,  it  was  still  a  '  clock  calm,'  and  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  tow  for  an  offing,  while 
we  put  the  canvas  on  her  in  readiness  for  a  breeze. 

At  setting  sail  we  were  hard  wrought,  for  we 
were  still  three  hands  short  of  our  complement, 
and  the  three  in  the  fo'cas'le  were  beyond  hope 
by  reason  of  drug  and  drink.  The  blocks  and  gear 
were  stiff  after  the  long  spell  in  harbour.  Some  of 
the  new  men  were  poor  stuff.  The  Mexican  '  ran- 
cheros  '  were  the  worst ;  one  was  already  sea-sick, 
and  the  other  had  a  look  of  despair.  They  followed 
the  '  crowd '  about  and  made  some  show  of  pulling 
on  the  tail  of  the  halyards,  but  they  were  very 
green,  and  it  was  easy  to  work  off  an  old  sailor's 
trick  on  them — '  lighting  up  the  slack  '  of  the  rope, 
thus  landing  them  on  the  broad  of  their  backs  when 
they  pulled — at  nothing  !  We  should  have  had 
pity  for  them,  for  they  never  even  pretended  to  be 
seamen ;  but  we  were  shorthanded  in  a  heavy 
ship,  and  the  more  our  arms  ached,  the  louder  grew 
our  curses  at  their  clumsy  '  sodgerin'.' 

One  of  the  three  in  the  fo'cas'le  '  came  to  '  and 
staggered  out  on  deck  to  see  where  he  was.  As  he 
gazed  about,  dazed  and  bewildered,  the  Mate, 
seeing  him,  shouted. 

"  Here,  you  !    What's  yer  name  ?  " 


HOMEWARD  153 

The  man  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  said, 
"  Hans." 

"  Well,  Hans,  you  git  along  to  the  tops'l  halyards  ; 
damn  smart's  th'  word  !  " 

With  hands  to  his  aching  head,  the  man  stag- 
gered drunkenly.  Everything  was  confusion  to 
him.  Where  was  he  ?  What  ship  ?  What  voyage  ? 
The  last  he  remembered  would  be  setting  the  tune 
to  a  Dago  fiddler  in  a  gaudy  saloon,  with  lashings 
of  drink  to  keep  his  feet  a-tripping.  Now  all  was 
mixed  and  hazy,  but  in  the  mist  one  thing  stood 
definite,  a  seamanlike  order :  "  Top'sl  halyards  ! 
Damn  smart !  "  Hans  laid  aft  and  tallied  on  with 
the  crowd. 

Here  was  a  man  who  had  been  outrageously  used. 
Drugged — robbed — '  shanghai-ed  '  !  His  head  split- 
ting with  the  foul  drink,  knowing  nothing  and  no 
one ;  but  he  had  heard  a  seamanlike  order,  so  he 
hauled  on  the  rope,  and  only  muttered  something 
about  his  last  ship  having  a  crab-winch  for  the 
topsail  halyards  ! 

About  noon  we  cast  off  the  tug,  but  there  was 
yet  no  wind  to  fill  our  canvas,  and  we  lay  as  she 
had  left  us  long  after  her  smoke  had  vanished  from 
the  misty  horizon. 

At  one  we  were  sent  below  for  our  first  sea-meal. 


154        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Over  our  beef  and  potatoes  we  discussed  our  new 
shipmates  and  agreed  that  they  were  a  weedy  lot 
for  a  long  voyage.  In  this  our  view  was  held  by 
the  better  men  in  the  fo'cas'le  and,  after  dinner, 
the  crew  came  aft  in  a  body,  headed  by  Old  Martin, 
who  said  "  as  'ow  they  wanted  t'  speak  t'  th' 
Captin  !  " 

The  Old  Man  was  evidently  prepared  for  a  'growl' 
from  forward,  and  took  a  conciliatory  stand. 

"  Well,  men  ?  What's  the  trouble  ?  What  have 
you  to  say  ?  "  he  said. 

Old  Martin  took  the  lead  with  assurance. 

"  I  speaks  for  all  'ans,  Captin,"  he  said.  .  .  . 
"  An'  we  says  as  'ow  this  'ere  barque  is  short- 
'anded;  we  says  as  'ow  there's  three  empty  bunks 
in  th'  fo'cas'le ;  an'  two  of  th'  'ans  wot's  shipped 
ain't  never  bin  aloft  afore.  We  says  as  'ow — with 
all  doo  respeck,  Captin — we  wants  yer  t'  put  back 
t'  port  for  a  crew  wot  can  take  th'  bloomin'  packet 
round  the  'Orn,  Sir  !  " 

Martin  stepped  back,  having  fired  his  shot,  and 
he  carefully  arranged  a  position  among  his  mates, 
so  that  he  was  neither  in  front  of  the  '  men  '  or 
behind,  where  Houston  and  the  cook  and  the 
'  rancheros  '  stood. 

The  Old  Man  leaned  over  the  poop-rail  and  looked 


HOMEWARD  155 

at  the  men  collectively,  with  great  admiration. 
He  singled  out  no  man  for  particular  regard,  but 
just  admired  them  all,  as  one  looks  at  soldiers  on 
parade.  He  moved  across  the  poop  to  see  them 
at  a  side  angle ;  the  hands  became  hotly  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  What's  this  I  hear,  men  ?  What's  this  I 
hear?/' 

("  As  fine  a  crowd  0'  men  as  ever  I  shipped, 
Mister,"  a  very  audible  aside  to  the  Mate.)  "  What's 
this  I  hear  ?  D'ye  mean  t'  tell  me  that  ye're  afraid 
t'  be  homeward  bound  in  a  well-found  ship,  just 
because  we're  three  hands  short  of  a  big  '  crowd  '  ?  " 

"  Wot  'bout  them  wot  ain't  never  been  aloft 
afore,"  muttered  Martin,  though  in  a  somewhat 
subdued  voice. 

"  What  about  them  ?  "  said  the  Old  Man. 
"  What  about  them  ?  Why,  a  month  in  fo'- 
cas'le  alongside  such  fine  seamen  as  I  see  before 
me  "  (here  he  singled  out  Welsh  John  and  some 
of  the  old  hands  for  a  pleasant  smile),  "  alongside 
men  that  know  their  work."  (Welsh  John  and 
the  others  straightened  themselves  up  and  looked 
away  to  the  horizon,  as  if  the  outcome  of  the  affair 
were  a  matter  of  utter  indifference  to  them.)  "  D'ye 
tell  me  a  month  alongside  men  that  have  sailed 


156        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

with  me  before  won't  make  sailors  of  them,  eh  ? 
Tchutt,  I  know  different.  .  .  .  Sailors  they'll  be 
before  we  reach  the  Horn."  (Here  one  of  the 
potential  '  sailors  '  ran  to  the  ship's  side,  intent  on 
an  affair  of  his  own.) 

The  men  turned  to  one  another,  sheepish. 

"  Ye  know  well  enough  we  can't  get  men,  even 
if  we  did  put  back  to  port,"  continued  the  Old 
Man.  "  They're  no'  t'  be  had  !  Ye'll  have  to  do 
yer  best,  and  I'll  see  "  (a  sly  wink  to  the  Mate) 
"  that  ye  ain't  put  on.    Steward  !  " 

He  gave  an  order  that  brought  a  grin  of  expecta- 
tion to  the  faces  of  all  '  'ans,'  and  the  affair  ended. 

A  wily  one  was  our  Old  Jock  ! 

The  Mate  was  indignant  at  so  much  talk.  .  .  . 
"  A  '  clip '  under  the  ear  for  that  Martin,"  he  said, 
"  would  have  settled  it  without  all  that  palaver  "  ; 
and  then  he  went  on  to  tell  the  Old  Man  what 
happened  when  he  was  in  the  New  Bedford  whalers. 

"  Aye,  aye,  man !  Aye,  aye,"  said  Old  Jock, 
"  I  know  the  Yankee  game,  Mister — blood  an' 
thunder  an'  belayin'  pins  an'  six-ounce  knuckle- 
dusters !  Gun  play,  too,  an'  all  the  rest  of  it. 
I  know  that  game,  Mister,  and  it  doesn't  come  off 
on  my  ship— no'  till  a'  else  has  been  tried." 

He  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  poop, 


HOMEWARD  157 

whistling  for  a  breeze.  Out  in  the  nor'-west  the 
haze  was  lifting,  and  a  faint  grey  line  of  ruffled 
water  showed  beyond  the  glassy  surface  of  our 
encircling  calm. 

•"  Stan'  by  t'  check  th'  yards,  Mister,"  he  shouted, 
rubbing  his  hands.  ..."  Phe  .  .  .  w  1  Phe  .  .  .  w ! 
Phe  .  .  .  w  1  encouraging." 


XIV 

A  TRICK  AT  THE   WHEEL 

KEEP  'r  full  an'  by !  " 
"  Full  'n  by  !  " 

Houston,  relieved  from  the  wheel,  reports  to  the 
Mate  and  goes  forward,  and  I  am  left  to  stand  my 
trick. 

We  are  in  the  south-east  trades  ;  a  gentle  breeze, 
and  all  sail  set.  Aloft,  the  ghostly  canvas  stands 
out  against  a  star-studded  sky,  and  the  masthead 
trucks  sway  in  a  stately  circle  as  we  heave  on  the 
light  swell.  She  is  steering  easily,  asking  nothing 
but  a  spoke  or  two  when  a  fluttering  tremor  on 
the  weather  leach  of  the  royals  shows  that  she  is 
nearing  the  wind.  The  light  in  the  binnacle  is  dim 
and  spluttering,  the  glass  smoke-blackened,  and 
one  can  but  see  the  points  on  the  compass  card. 
South  sou'-west,  she  heads,  swinging  a  little  west 
at  times,  but  making  a  good  course.  Eccles,  who 
should  see  to  the  lights,  is  stretched  out  on  the 
wheel-box   grating,    resuming    the    thread   of    his 

158 


A  TRICK   AT   THE    WHEEL     159 

slumbers  ;  a  muttered  "  'ware  !  "  will  bring  him 
to  his  feet  when  the  Mate  comes  round  ;  meantime, 
there  are  stars  ahead  to  steer  by,  and  the  binnacle- 
lamp  may  wait. 

South  of  the  Line,  at  four  in  the  morning,  is  a 
fine  time  to  see  the  stars,  if  one  be  but  properly 
awake.  Overhead,  Orion  has  reached  his  height, 
and  is  now  striding  towards  the  western  horizon. 
The  Dog-star  is  high  over  the  mizzen  truck,  and 
Canopus,  clear  of  the  weather  backstays,  is  a 
friend  to  a  drowsy  helmsman.  The  Southern 
Cross  is  clearing  the  sea-line,  and  above  it  many- 
eyed  Argus  keeps  watch  over  the  Pole.  Old  friends, 
all  of  them,  companions  of  many  a  night  watch 
on  leagues  of  lonely  sea.  A  glow  to  the  east- 
ward marks  where  the  dawn  will  break,  and  the 
fleecy  trade-clouds  about  the  horizon  are  already 
assuming  shape  and  colour.  There  the  stars  are 
paling,  but  a  planet,  Jupiter,  perhaps,  stands  out 
in  brilliance  on  the  fast  lightening  sky. 

Forward  one  bell  is  struck,  and  the  look-out 
chants  a  long-drawn,  "  Aw — ll's  well !  " 

The  Mate,  who  until  now  has  been  leaning  lazily 
over  the  poop  rail,  comes  aft,  yawning  whole- 
heartedly, as  men  do  at  sea.  He  peers  into  the 
dimly-lighted  binnacle,  turns  his  gaze  to  the  sail 


160        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

aloft,  sniffs  the  wind,  and  fixes  me  with  a  stern 
though  drowsy  eye. 

"H-mm!  You,  is  it?"  (I  have  but  a  modest 
reputation  as  a  steersman.)  "  Jest  you  keep  'r 
full  now,  or  I'll  teach  ye  steerin'  in  your  watch 
below.  Keep  'r  full,  an'  no  damned  shinnanikin  !  " 
He  goes  forward. 

1  Shinnanikin '  is  a  sailor  word ;  it  means  anything 
at  all ;  it  may  be  made  an  adjective  or  a  verb,  or 
almost  any  part  of  speech,  to  serve  a  purpose 
or  express  a  thought.  Here  it  meant  that  there 
was  to  be  no  fooling  at  the  helm,  that  she  was 
to  be  steered  as  by  Gunter  himself.  "  Full  an' 
by,"  was  the  word.  "  Full  an'  by,  an'  no  damned 
shinnanikin  !  "    Right ! 

The  light  grows,  and  the  towering  mass  of 
canvas  and  cordage  shows  faint  shadows  here  and 
there.  The  chickens  in  the  quarter  coops  stir 
and  cackle ;  a  cock  crows  valiantly.  Eccles, 
sleeping  his  watch  on  the  lee  side  of  the  poop, 
stirs  uneasily,  finds  a  need  for  movement,  and 
tramps  irresolutely  up  and  down  his  appointed 
station.  From  somewhere  out  of  sight  the  Mate 
shouts  an  order,  and  he  goes  forward  to  take  in 
the  sidelights ;  dim  and  sickly  they  shine  as  he 
lifts  them  inboard. 


A   TRICK   AT   THE   WHEEL     161 

There  is  now  some  sign  of  life  about  the  decks. 
A  keen  smell  of  burning  wood  and  a  glare  from 
the  galley  show  that  the  cook  has  taken  up  the 
day's  duties.  Some  men  of  the  watch  are  already 
gathered  about  the  door  waiting  for  their  morning 
coffee,  and  the  '  idlers '  (as  the  word  is  at  sea), 
the  steward,  carpenter,  and  sailmaker,  in  various 
states  of  attire,  are  getting  ready  for  their  work. 

Two  bells  marks  five  o'clock,  and  the  crowd 
about  the  galley  door  grows  impatient.  The  cook 
has  a  difficulty  with  his  fire,  and  is  behind  time. 

"  Come  on,  '  doctor  '  !  "  shouts  Old  Martin  ; 
"  get  a  move  on  yer  !  Them  tawps'l  'alyards  is 
screechin'  fer  a  pull,  an'  th'  Mate's  got  'is  heagle 
heye  on  that  'ere  fore-tack.  'E'll  be  a-floggin'  th' 
clock  afore  ye  knows  it !  " 

The  Mate  hears  this,  as  Martin  intended  he 
should,  and  scowls  darkly  at  that  ancient  mariner. 
Martin  will  have  his  '  old  iron  '  worked  up  for 
that  before  the  watch  is  out.  He's  a  hard  case. 
Coffee  is  served  out,  and  the  crowd  disperses. 
It  is  now  broad  daylight,  and  the  sun  is  on  the 
horizon.  The  east  is  a-fire  with  his  radiance ; 
purest  gold  there  changing  to  saffron  and  rose 
overhead ;  and  in  the  west,  where  fading  stars 
show,   copper-hued  clouds  are  working  down  to 

M 


i62        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  horizon  in  track  of  the  night.  Our  dingy  sails 
are  cut  out  in  seemly  curves  and  glowing  colours 
against  the  deep  of  the  sky ;  red-gold  where  the 
light  strikes,  and  deepest  violet  in  the  shadows. 
Blue  smoke  from  the  galley  funnel  is  wafted  aft 
by  the  draught  from  the  sails,  and  gives  a  kindly 
scent  to  the  air  ;  there  is  no  smell  like  that  of  wood 
fires  in  the  pride  of  the  morning.  This  is  a  time 
to  be  awake  and  alive ;  a  morning  to  be  at  the 
wheel  of  a  leaning  ship. 

Presently  I  am  relieved  for  a  few  minutes  that 
I  may  have  my  coffee.  Being  the  last  man,  I 
get  a  bo'sun's  share  of  the  grounds.  To  my  pro- 
tests the  cook  gives  scant  heed. 

"  Ach,  sure  !  Phwat  are  yez  growlin'  at  ?  Sure, 
if  ye'd  been  in  my  last  ship,  yez  wouldn't  have 
none  at  all !  Devil  the  coffee  would  yez  get  till 
eight  bells  ov  a  marnin',  an'  tay  at  thatt,  bedad !  " 

The  'doctor,'  being  Irish,  is  beyond  argument, 
so  I  take  my  pannikin  along  to  our  quarters  to  sift 
the  grounds  as  best  I  can.  There  is  naught  but 
dry  ship's  biscuit  to  put  down  with  it,  for  it  is 
well  on  in  the  week — Thursday,  indeed — and  only 
Hansen  among  us  can  make  his  week's  rations 
last  out  beyond  that ;  he  was  bred  in  the  north. 
The  half-deck  is  in  its  usual  hopeless  disorder — 


A  TRICK   AT  THE   WHEEL     163 

stuffy  and  close  and  dismal  in  the  shuttered  half- 
light.  Four  small  ports  give  little  air,  and  sea 
clothes  hanging  everywhere  crowd  up  the  space. 
The  beams,  blackened  by  tobacco  smoke,  are 
hacked  and  carved,  covered  by  the  initials  and 
remarks  of  bygone  apprentices.  Only  the  after 
one  is  kept  clear  ;  there  the  Board  of  Trade  in- 
scription (slightly  altered  by  some  inspiring  genius), 
reads,  "  Certified  to  suffocate  eight  seamen."  A 
dismal  hole  on  a  bright  morning  !  Happily,  one 
has  not  far  to  go  for  a  breath  of  keen  air.  Ten 
minutes  is  my  time,  and  I  am  back  at  the  wheel 
again. 

The  Mate  is  seated  on  the  cabin  skylight,  smok- 
ing. This  is  his  time  to  consider  the  trim  of  the 
sails.  It  is  no  matter  that  the  evening  before  the 
gear  was  sweated  up  to  the  tautest  of  sailing  trim  ; 
the  wind  is  unchanged,  but  morning  shows  wrinkles 
in  the  clew  of  the  royals  or  a  sag  in  the  foot  of 
a  topsail.  Ropes  give  mysteriously,  and  this  must 
all  be  righted  before  the  Old  Man  comes  on  deck. 
So  he  smokes  leisurely  and  considers  the  trim. 

The  day's  work  begins  at  half-past  five.  The 
Mate  strikes  three  bells  himself,  exact,  on  the 
tick  of  the  minute,  and  goes  forward  to  turn  the 
men  to. 


1 64        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Fore  tack,"  as  Martin  said,  is  the  first  order. 
The  Mate  signs  to  me  to  luff  her  up,  and  when  the 
sail  shakes  the  tack  is  hove  hard  down.  Then 
sheets  and  halyards  are  sweated  up,  ropes  coiled, 
and  a  boy  sent  aloft  to  stop  up  the  gear.  At  the 
main  they  have  the  usual  morning  wrestle  with 
the  weather  topsail  sheet — a  clew  that  never  did 
fit.  Macallison's  loft  must  have  been  at  sixes 
and  sevens  the  day  they  turned  that  sail  out ;  a 
Monday  after  Glasgow  Fair,  belike.  When  the 
trim  is  right,  wash  deck  begins.  A  bucket  and 
spar  is  rigged,  and  the  clear  sparkling  water  is 
drawn  from  overside.  This  is  the  fine  job  of  the 
morning  watch  in  summer  seas.  The  sound  of  cool 
sluicing  water  and  the  swish  of  scrubbing  brooms  is 
an  invitation  that  no  one  can  resist.  There  is 
something  in  it  that  calls  for  bare  feet  and  trousers 
rolled  above  the  knee.  There  is  grace  in  the  steady 
throwing  of  the  water — the  brimming  bucket  poised 
for  the  throw,  left  foot  cocked  a  few  inches  above 
the  deck,  the  balance,  and  the  sweeping  half -circle 
with  the  limpid  water  pouring  strongly  and  evenly 
over  the  planking  ;  then  the  recovery,  and  the 
quick  half-turn  to  pass  the  empty  bucket  and  re- 
ceive a  full — a  figure  for  a  stately  dance  ! 

Now  it  is  six,  and  I  strike  four  bells.     Martin 


A   TRICK   AT   THE   WHEEL     165 

has  the  next  trick,  but  I  see  no  signs  of  my  relief. 
The  Mate  will  have  him  at  some  lowly  '  work-up ' 
job,  cleaning  pig-pens  or  something  like  that,  for 
his  hint  about  flogging  the  clock  in  the  morning. 
The  cranky  old  '  shellback '  is  always  '  asking 
for  it.' 

In  the  waist  a  row  begins,  a  bicker  between 
the  sailmaker  and  bo'sun.  Old  Dutchy  is  laying 
it  off  because  someone  has  spilt  water  on  the 
main-hatch,  where  a  sail  is  spread  out,  ready  for 
his  work.  In  course,  the  bo'sun  has  called  him  a 
'  squarehead,'  and  '  Sails,'  a  decent  old  Swede,  is 
justly  indignant  at  the  insult ;  only  Germans  are 
squareheads,  be  it  known.  "  Skvarehedd  !  Jou 
calls  me  skvarehedd  !  Ah  vass  no  more  skvare- 
hedd as  jou  vass,"  he  says,  excited.  "  Jou  tinks 
d'  sheep  vass  jours,  mit  jour  vash-backet  und  deck- 
scrub.  Dere  vass  no  places  for  d'  sailmake,  aindt 
it  ?  Skvarehedd !  Skvarehedd  jourselluf,  dam 
Cockney  loafer  !  "  There  are  the  makings  of  a 
tidy  row,  but  the  Mate,  coming  from  forrard,  cuts 
it  short. 

"  Now,  then,  you  men  there,  quit  yer  chinning 
an'  get  on  with  the  work  !  " 

'  Sails '  tries  to  explain  his  grievance,  but  meets 
with  little  sympathy. 


1 66        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Squarehead  ?  Well,  what  the  hell's  th'  odds, 
anyhow  ?  If  ye  ain't  a  squarehead,  ye'r  as  near 
it  's  can  be  !  " 

This  is  rough  on  old  '  Sails,'  whose  proud  boast 
is  that  he  has  been  "  for  thirty  jahrs  sailmake  mit 
British  sheeps  in  !  "  He  goes  sorrowfully  to  his 
work,  and  bends  over  his  seam  with  many  shakings 
of  the  head.    "  Skvarehedd  !  " 

Time  is  drawing  on,  and  I  am  getting  tired  of 
my  long  trick,  when  I  see  Martin  coming  round 
the  deck-house.  He  has  donned  the  familiar  old 
red  flannel  shirt  that  he  stands  his  wheel  in,  and, 
bareheaded  as  he  always  is  at  sea,  he  looks  a  typical 
old  salt,  a  Western  Ocean  warrior.  He  mounts  the 
lee  ladder,  crosses  to  windward  in  the  fashion 
of  the  sea,  and  stands  behind  me.  Here,  I  thought, 
is  a  rare  chance  to  get  at  Martin.  I  give  him  the 
Mate's  last  steering  order  as  I  got  it. 

"  Full  an'  by,"  I  said,  concealing  a  foolish 
grin  ;  "  full  an'  by,  and  no  damned  shinnanikin  !  " 
Martin  looked  at  me  curiously.  "  No  shinnanikin," 
was  a  new  order  to  a  man  who  could  steer  blindfold, 
by  the  wind  on  his  cheek  ;  to  a  man  who  had 
steered  great  ships  for  perhaps  half  a  century. 
On  the  other  hand,  orders  were  orders,  meant  to 
be  repeated  as  they  were  given,  seamanlike. 


A  TRICK   AT   THE   WHEEL     167 

Martin  squared  himself,  put  a  fresh  piece  of 
tobacco  in  position,  and  gripped  the  spokes.  "  Full 
'n'  by,"  he  said,  lifting  his  keen  old  eyes  to  the 
weather  clews  of  the  royals,  "  full  'n'  by,  'n'  no 
damned  shinnanikin,  it  is  1 " 


XV 

"OLY   JOES' 

"  O  HE'LL   be  one  o'    them    'oly  Joes ;    them 
^-^  wot   cruises  among  th'   Islands  wi'   tracks 
an'  picter  books  for  th'  bloomin'  'eathens  !  " 

"  'O— ly  Joes  !  'Oly  Joes  b'  damn,"  said 
Martin.  "  'Oly  Joes  is  schooners  same's  mission 
boats  on  th'  Gran'  Banks  !  .  .  .  'Oly  Joes  !  She's 
a  starvation  Britisher,  that's  wot  she  is ;  a  pound 
an'  pint  ruddy  limejuicer  by  th'  set  o'  them  trucks  ; 
sailor's  misery  in  them  painted  bloomin'  ports  o' 
her." 

The  subject  of  discussion  was  a  full-rigged  ship, 
standing  upright  in  mid-Pacific,  with  all  her  canvas 
furled ;  looking  as  she  might  be  in  Queenstown 
Harbour  awaiting  orders.  The  south-east  trades 
had  blown  us  out  of  the  tropics,  and  we  held  a 
variable  wind,  but  there  was  nothing  in  the  clean, 
fresh  morning  to  cause  even  a  Killala  pilot  to  clew 
up,  and  the  strange  sight  of  an  idle  ship  in  a  working 

1 68 


<'OLY  JOES*  169 

breeze  soon  drew  all  hands  from  work  and  slumber, 
to  peer  over  the  head  rail,  to  vent  deep-sea  logic 
over  such  an  odd  happening. 

One  of  the  younger  hands  had  expressed  an 
opinion,  and  Martin,  who  held  that  "  boys  an' 
Dutchmen  should  only  speak  when  spoke  to," 
was  scornfully  indignant. 

"  'O — ly  bloomin'  Joe  !  .  .  .  'Ow  should  she 
be  an  'oly  Joe,  me  young  '  know-all '  ?  Wot  d'ye 
know  'bout  'oly  Joes,  anyway  ?  " 

"  Well !  .  .  .  'eard  as  'ow  they  clews  up  at  eight 
bells  o'  a  Saturd'y  night  an'  prays,  solid  on, 
till  they  sets  tawps'ls,  jack-easy,  ov  a  Monday 
mornin'!" 

The  laugh  of  derision  sent  him  shamefaced  to 
the  fo'cas'le,  and  we  talked  about  till  there  was 
a  call  for  all  hands  to  haul  courses  up  and  stand 
by  to  work  ship.  We  hauled  sharp  up  to  wind- 
ward, and,  as  we  drew  on,  we  saw  what  was  the 
matter,  and  the  sight  caused  our  Old  Man  to  dive 
below  to  his  charts,  cursing  his  wayward  chrono- 
meter. 

We  saw  the  loom  of  a  low  island,  scarce  raised 
above  the  sea,  with  the  surf  breaking  lightly, 
and  the  big  ship  piled  up,  all  standing,  on  the 
verge  of  the  weather  reef.     She  looked  to  be  but 


170        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

lately  gone  on,  for  her  topsides  were  scarce  weather- 
beaten.  The  boats  were  gone  from  her  skids,  and 
the  davit  tackles,  swinging  lubberly  overside,  told 
that  her  crew  had  left  her.  Aloft,  she  seemed  to 
be  in  good  trim,  and  her  sails  were  as  well  stowed 
as  if  she  were  lying  in  the  Canning  Dock  with 
her  nose  against  the  Custom  House.  We  lay- to  for 
some  time  with  our  ensign  apeak,  but  saw  no  sign 
of  life  aboard  of  the  wreck,  and  when  we  fired  a 
charge  from  our  signal-gun  (a  rusty  six-pounder), 
only  a  few  sea-birds  rose  at  the  report.  We  were 
about  to  bear  off  on  our  course  again  when  we  saw 
two  sail  rounding  the  reef  from  the  west  side,  and 
beating  out. 

There  was  but  a  light  breeze,  and  they  were  some 
time  in  reaching  us.  One  was  a  large  boat  with 
barked  canvas,  going  well  and  weatherly,  but  the 
other,  plainly  a  ship's  lifeboat,  hung  heavy  in  the 
wind,  and  presently  her  crew  lowered  sail  and  came 
at  us  under  oars.  The  big  boat  reached  us  first, 
her  steersman  taking  every  inch  out  of  the  fickle 
breeze.  Plainly  these  were  no  deep-water  sailor- 
men,  by  the  way  they  handled  their  boat.  Smart, 
wiry  men,  they  had  no  look  of  castaways,  and  their 
light  cotton  clothes  were  cleanly  and  in  order.  As 
they  sheered   alongside   they  hailed  us  in   clear, 


"OLY  JOES'  171 

pleasant  English  :   one  shouted,  in  face  of  our  line 
of  wondering  seamen,  a  strange  sea  salutation  : 

"  God  bless  you,  Captain  Leish  !  Are  you  long 
out  ?  " 

"  Blimy,"  said  the  bo'sun,  "  th'  young  'un  wos 
right  after  all.    'Oly  Joes  they  be  !  " 

"  Mebbe  'oly  Joes,  but  them  ain't  sailormen," 
muttered  Martin  sullenly  ;    "  them's  Kanakas  !  " 

Neither  was  quite  right,  for  the  boatmen  were 
Pitcairn  Islanders,  and  they  were  soon  on  deck 
greeting  us  in  the  friendly  way  of  men  from  afar. 
Their  leader  went  aft  to  the  Old  Man,  and  the 
rest  remained  to  tell  us  of  the  wreck,  in  exchange 
for  what  scant  knowledge  we  had  of  affairs. 

The  island  was  called  Oeno.  The  ship  was  the 
Bowden,  of  Liverpool.  She  had  gone  ashore,  six 
weeks  back,  in  a  northerly  wind,  with  all  sail  on 
her :  chronometer  was  twenty  miles  out :  a  bad 
case,  the  whole  bottom  was  ripped  out  of  her,  and 
her  ruined  cargo  of  grain  smelt  abominably ;  two 
of  their  men  were  already  sick.  Ugh !  .  .  .  The 
crew  of  the  ship  had  made  for  Pitcairn,  ninety  miles 
to  the  southward ;  they  might  be  there  now. 
They  (the  Islanders)  had  now  been  three  weeks  on 
the  reef,  salving  what  they  could.  There  was  not 
much  :    they  were  all  pretty  sick  of  the  job,  and 


172        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

wanted  to  get  back  to  Pitcairn.  Perhaps  the  Captain 
would  give  them  a  passage  ;  it  was  on  the  way  ? 

As  we  stood  about,  the  Old  Man  and  the  leader 
of  the  Islanders  came  out  of  the  cabin,  and  talked 
with  the  others.  All  wanted  to  get  back  to  Pit- 
cairn, and,  the  Old  Man  agreeing  to  give  them  a 
passage,  we  hoisted  the  smaller  boat  on  our  davits, 
towed  the  other  astern,  and  were  soon  on  our  way 
towards  Pitcairn. 

When  we  got  the  ship  in  fair  sailing  trim,  we 
had  a  rare  opportunity  of  learning  something  of 
the  Island  and  its  people.  Discipline  was,  for  the 
time,  relaxed,  and  but  for  working  ship,  in  which 
the  Islanders  joined  us,  we  had  the  time  to  our- 
selves. In  the  shade  of  the  great  sails,  we  stood 
or  sat  about,  and  our  decks  showed  an  unusual 
animation  in  the  groups  of  men  colloguing  earnestly 
— strangers  met  by  the  way. 

In  stature  the  Islanders  were  perhaps  above 
the  average  height,  lithe  and  wiry,  and  but  few 
were  darker-skinned  than  a  Spaniard  or  Italian. 
They  spoke  excellent  English  (though,  among 
themselves,  they  had  a  few  odd  words),  and  their 
speech  had  no  unnecessary  adjectives.  They  had 
a  gentle  manner,  and  no  ill  language  ;  sometimes 
our  rough  ship  talk  raised   a  slight   protest ;    a 


"OLY  JOES'  173 

raised  hand,  or  a  mild,  "  Oh,  Sir !  "  Their  leader, 
who  was  Governor  of  the  Island,  was  a  man  in  the 
prime  of  life,  and,  though  dressed  in  dungarees 
and  a  worn  cotton  shirt,  barefooted  like  the  rest, 
had  a  quiet  dignity  in  his  manner  and  address  that 
caused  even  our  truculent  Old  Martin  to  call  him 
Sir.  There  was  one  outlander  among  them,  a 
wiry  old  man,  an  American  whaleman,  who  had 
been  settled  on  the  Island  for  many  years ;  he 
it  was  who  steered  the  boat,  and  he  knew  a  little 
of  navigation. 

Their  talk  was  mostly  of  ships  that  had  visited 
the  Island,  and  they  asked  us  to  run  over  the 
names  of  the  ships  that  were  at  'Frisco  when  we 
left ;  when  we  mentioned  a  ship  that  they  knew, 
they  were  eager  to  know  how  it  fared  with  her 
people.  They  had  fine  memories.  They  could 
name  the  Captain  and  Mates  of  each  ship ;  of 
the  whalers  they  had  the  particulars  even  down 
to  the  bulk  of  oil  aboard.  They  seemed  to  take  a 
pleasure  in  learning  our  names,  and,  these  known, 
they  let  pass  no  opportunity  of  using  them,  slipping 
them  into  sentences  in  the  oddest  manner.  They 
themselves  had  few  surnames — Adams,  Fletcher, 
Christian,  and  Hobbs  (the  names  of  their  fore- 
fathers, the  stark  mutineers  of  the  Bounty) — but 


174        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

their  Christian  names  were  many  and  curious, 
sometimes  days  of  the  week  or  even  dates.  They 
told  us  that  there  was  a  child  named  after  our 
Old  Man,  who  had  called  off  the  Island  the  day  after 
it  was  born,  five  years  ago ;  a  weird  name  for  a 
lassie  !  In  one  way  the  Islanders  had  a  want. 
They  had  no  sense  of  humour.  True,  they  laughed 
with  us  at  some  merry  jest  of  our  Irish  cook,  but 
it  was  the  laugh  of  children,  seeing  their  elders 
amused,  and  though  they  were  ever  cheery-faced 
and  smiling,  they  were  strangely  serious  in  their 
outlook. 

We  had  light  winds,  and  made  slow  progress, 
and  it  was  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  when 
we  saw  Pitcairn,  rising  bold  and  solitary,  on  the 
lee  bow.  The  sun  had  gone  down  before  we  drew 
nigh,  and  the  Island  stood  sharp  outlined  against 
the  scarlet  and  gold  of  a  radiant  western  sky.  Slowly 
the  light  failed,  and  the  dark  moonless  night  found 
us  lifting  lazily  to  the  swell  off  the  north  point. 
The  Islanders  manned  their  boats  and  made  off 
to  the  landing  place.  It  was  clock  calm,  and  we 
heard  the  steady  creak  of  their  oars  long  after  the 
dark  had  taken  them.  We  drifted  close  to  the 
land,  and  the  scent  of  trees,  lime  and  orange,  was 
sweetly  strange. 


<'OLY  JOES'  175 

The  boats  were  a  long  time  gone,  and  the  Old 
Man  was  growing  impatient,  when  we  heard  voices 
on  the  water,  and  saw,  afar  off,  the  gleam  of  phos- 
phorescence on  the  dripping  oars.  We  heard  the 
cheery  hail,  "  The  Florence,  ahoy  !  "  and  burned 
a  blue  light  to  lead  them  on. 

There  were  many  new  men  in  the  boats,  and 
they  brought  a  cargo  of  fruit  and  vegetables  to 
barter  with  us.  The  Old  Man  heaved  a  sigh  of 
relief  when  he  learned  that  the  Bowden's  crew  were 
disposed  of ;  they  had  taken  passage  in  a  whaler 
that  had  called,  nine  days  before,  on  her  way  across 
to  Valparaiso — a  '  full '  ship. 

In  odd  corners  the  bartering  began.  Cotton 
clothes  were  in  most  demand ;  they  had  little  use 
for  anything  heavier.  A  basket  of  a  hundred  or 
more  luscious  oranges  could  be  had  for  an  old 
duck  suit,  and  a  branch  of  ripening  bananas  was 
counted  worth  a  cotton  shirt  in  a  reasonable 
state  of  repair.  Hansen  had  red  cotton  curtains 
to  his  bunk,  full  lengths,  and  there  was  keen 
bidding  before  they  were  taken  down,  destined 
to  grace  some  island  beauty.  After  the  trade  in 
clothing  had  become  exhausted,  there  were  odd 
items,  luxuries  to  the  Islanders,  soap,  matches, 
needles,  thread.    There  was  a  demand  for  parts  of 


176        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

old  clocks — Martin  it  was  who  had  a  collection  • 
they  told  us  that  there  was  a  man  on  the  island 
who  was  a  famous  hand  at  putting  up  and  re- 
pairing such  battered  timepieces  as  we  had  to  offer. 
They  had  some  curios  ;  rudely  carved  or  painted 
bamboos,  and  sea-shells  cunningly  fashioned  into 
pin-cushions,  with  Pitcairn  in  bold  black  letters, 
just  as  one  might  see  "A  Present  from  Largs." 
These  were  the  work  of  the  women-folk,  and  showed 
considerable  ingenuity  in  the  way  the  shells  were 
jointed. 

Although  they  seemed  to  have  a  good  idea  of 
the  value  of  the  trifles  we  offered,  there  was  no 
'  haggling,'  and  latterly,  when  trade  slackened,  it 
came  to  be,  "  Sir !  if  you  like  this,  I  will  give 
it  to  you,  and  you  will  give  me  something." 

There  was  no  cheating.  Those  of  our  crew 
who  would  glory  in  '  bilking  '  a  runner  or  a  Dutch- 
man were  strangely  decent,  even  generous,  in  their 
dealings.  When  we  were  called  away  to  brace 
the  yards  round,  stock  was  taken  on  both  sides ; 
the  Islanders  had  their  boats  well  laden,  and  our 
once  trim  deck  was  strewn  with  a  litter  of  fruit 
and  vegetables,  like  the  top  of  Bell  Street  on  a 
busy  morning. 

Light  was  breaking  into  the  east  when  we  laid  the 


"OLY  JOES'  177 

yards  to  a  gentle  breeze,  and  shortly  the  Islanders, 
with  a  great  shaking  of  hands  and  "God  bless  you," 
got  aboard  their  boats  and  sheered  off.  We  were 
now  to  leeward  of  the  Island,  and  the  light  showed 
us  the  bold  wooded  heights,  high  cliffs,  steep  to 
the  water's  edge,  and  the  small  houses  scattered 
apart  among  the  trees.  Astern  the  boats  had 
hoisted  sail,  and  were  standing  inshore,  leaning 
gently  to  the  scented  land  breeze.  The  '  'oly  Joes  ' 
were  singing  together  as  they  sailed  ;  the  tune 
was  an  old  familiar  one  that  minded  us  of  quiet 
Sabbath  days  in  the  homeland,  of  kirk  and  kent 
faces,  and,  somehow,  we  felt  that  it  was  we  who 
were  the  '  bloomin'  'eathens,'  for  their  song  was 
'  Rock  of  Ages,'  and  it  had  a  new  sound,  mellowed 
by  distance  and  the  water. 


XVI 

EAST,   HALF  SOUTH 

/^\N  a  day  of  high  action  in  sea  and  sky  we  fled, 
^-^  hot-foot,  before  the  fury  of  a  nor'-west  gale. 
We  had  run  her  overlong.  Old  Jock,  for  once  at 
any  rate,  had  had  his  weather  eye  bedimmed.  He 
was  expecting  a  quick  shift  into  the  sou'-west,  a 
moderate  gale,  and  a  chance  to  make  his  '  easting  ' 
round  Cape  Horn,  but  the  wind  hung  stubbornly 
in  the  nor'-west ;  there  was  no  break  in  the  sky, 
no  cessation  in  the  black  bursts  of  rain  and  sleet 
that  swept  upon  us.  A  huge  sea  set  up,  and  we 
were  past  the  time  when  we  could,  in  safety,  heave 
her  to  the  wind.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
run — run  she  did. 

We  had  tops 'Is  and  a  reefed  foresail  on  her  while 
daylight  lasted,  but  on  threat  of  darkness  we  stowed 
all  but  the  foretops'l ;  wings  enough  for  the  weight 
of  a  hurricane  wind.  Under  that  narrow  band  of 
straining  canvas  she  sped  on  into  the  murk  of 

178 


EAST,    HALF   SOUTH  179 

advancing  night,  while  behind  the  lurid  western 
sky  showed  threat  of  a  mightier -blast  in  bank  upon 
bank  of  ragged  storm-cloud.  It  was  a  wild  night, 
never  a  wilder ! 

In  the  darkness  the  uncanny  green  shimmer  of 
breaking  seas  gave  an  added  terror  to  the  scene 
of  storm.  Rain  and  stinging  sleet  swept  constantly 
over  us,  thundering  seas  towered  and  curled  at  our 
stern,  lapping  viciously  at  the  fleeting  quarter,  or, 
parting,  crashed  aboard  at  the  waist,  filling  the  decks 
man  high  with  a  power  of  destruction.  Part  of 
the  bulwarks  were  torn  from  the  side.  That  was, 
perhaps,  the  saving  of  us,  for  the  seas  swept  off 
as  fast  as  they  thundered  aboard,  and  the  barque 
rode  buoyant,  when,  with  bulwarks  standing,  the 
weight  of  compassed  water  would  have  held  her 
at  mercy  of  the  next  towering  greybeard.  A  boat 
on  the  forward  skids  was  smashed  to  atoms  and 
the  wreck  swept  overboard,  and  every  moment  we 
looked  to  see  our  crazy  half-deck  go  tottering  to 
ruin.  The  fo'ca'sle  was  awash  through  a  shattered 
door,  and  all  hands  were  gathered  on  the  poop  for 
such  safety  as  it  held.  There  was  nowhere  else 
where  man  could  stand  on  the  reeling  hull,  and 
crouching  at  the  rails,  wet  and  chilled  to  the  marrow, 
we  spent  the  night  a-watching. 


180        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

The  bo'sun  and  Martin  and  Hans  took  turns  of 
the  steering  ;  that  was  work  beyond  the  rest  of 
us,  and  the  most  we  could  do  was  to  stand  by  a-lee 
and  bear  on  the  spokes  with  the  helmsman.  Dutchy 
was  the  best  steersman,  and  his  steering  was  no 
truer  than  the  stout  heart  of  him.  Once  she 
pooped,  and  the  crest  of  a  huge  following  sea  came 
crashing  on  top  of  us.  But  for  our  hold-fasts,  all 
would  have  been  swept  away.  That  was  the  time 
of  trial.  A  falter  at  the  helm — she  would  have 
'  broached-to  ' — to  utter  destruction  ! 

Amid  the  furious  rush  of  broken  water,  '  Dutchy' 
stood  fast  at  his  post,  though  there  was  a  gash  on 
his  forehead  and  blood  running  in  his  eyes — the 
work  of  the  wrenching  wheel. 

We  showed  no  lights ;  no  lamps  would  stand 
to  the  weather.  There  was  only  the  flickering 
binnacle,  tended  as  never  was  temple  fire,  to  show 
the  compass  card.  By  turns  we  kept  a  look-out 
from  the  tops'l  yard,  but  of  what  use  was  that 
when  we  could  steer  but  to  one  point.  We  were 
a  ship  of  chance,  and  God  help  us  and  the  outward- 
bounder,  'hove-to'  in  the  trough,  that  had  come 
between  us  and  the  east  that  night ! 

How  we  looked  for  daylight !  How  it  was  long 
a-coming !     How  the  mountain  seas  raced  up  and 


EAST,    HALF   SOUTH  181 

hove  our  barque,  reeling  from  the  blow,  from 
towering  crest  to  hollow  of  the  trough  !  How 
every  day  of  the  twenty-five  years  of  her  cried  out 
in  creak  of  block,  in  clatter  of  chain  sheet,  in  the 
'  harping  '  of  the  backstays,  the  straining  groan  of 
the  burdened  masts  ! 

From  time  to  time  through  the  night  the  Mate 
and  some  of  us  would  go  forward  to  see  to  the  gear  ; 
there  was  no  need  to  touch  a  brace,  for  the  wind 
blew  ominously  true.  When  we  got  back  again, 
battered  and  breathless,  it  was  something  to  know 
that  the  foretops'l  still  stood  the  strain.  It  was  a 
famous  sail,  a  web  of  '  00  storm,'  stitched  and 
fortified  at  seam  and  roping  for  such  a  wind  as 
this.  Good  luck  to  the  hands  that  stitched  it,  to 
the  dingy  sail  loft  in  the  Govan  Road  that  turned 
it  out,  for  it  stood  us  in  stead  that  night ! 

Once  an  ill-stowed  clew  of  the  mains'l  blew  out 
with  a  sounding  crack,  and  thrashed  a  '  devil's 
tattoo  '  on  the  yard.  We  thought  it  the  tops'l 
gone — but  no  !  Macallison's  best  stood  bravely 
spread  to  the  shrieking  gale,  and  we  soon  had  the 
ribbons  of  the  main  clew  fast  to  the  yard. 

There  was  no  broad  dawn,  no  glow  in  the  east 
to  mark  its  breaking ;  the  light  grew  out  of  the 
darkness.    The  masts  and  spars  shaped  themselves 


182        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

out  of  the  gloom,  till  they  stood  outlined  against 
the  dull  grey  clouds.  We  could  see  the  great  seas, 
white-streaked  by  lash  of  driven  spray,  running  up 
into  the  lowering  sky.  When  day  came,  and  the 
heaving,  wind-swept  face  of  the  waters  became 
plain  to  us,  we  saw  the  stormy  path  round  the 
Horn  in  its  wildest,  grandest  mood.  Stretching 
far  to  the  black  murky  curtain — the  rear  of  the 
last  shrieking  rain  squall — the  great  Cape  Horn 
greybeards  swept  on  with  terrific  force  and  grandeur, 
their  mile-long  crests  hurtling  skyward  in  blinding 
foam.  The  old  barque  ran  well,  reeling  through  the 
long,  stormy  slopes  with  buoyant  spring,  driving 
wildly  to  the  trough,  smashing  the  foam  far  aside. 
At  times  she  poised  with  sickening  uncertitude 
on  the  crest  of  a  greater  wave,  then  steadied,  and 
leapt  with  the  breaking  water  to  the  smoother 
hollow. 

The  Old  Man  stood  by  the  helmsman,  '  conning  ' 
her  on.  All  night  he  had  stood  there,  ordering,  to 
the  shock  of  following  seas,  a  steady  voiced  com- 
mand. Never  a  gainly  man — short-legged,  broad, 
uncouth — his  was  yet  a  figure  in  keeping  with  the 
scene  ;  unkempt  and  haggard,  blue-lipped,  drenched 
by  sea  and  rain,  he  was  never  less  than  a  Master 
of  the  Sea.    At  daybreak  we  heard  a  hail  from  the 


EAST,    HALF   SOUTH  183 

tops'l  yard,  and  saw  the  '  look-out '  pointing  ahead. 
Peering  down  the  wind,  we  made  out  the  loom  of  a 
ship  rising  and  falling  in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  A 
big  '  four-master  '  she  proved,  lying  '  hove-to  '  the 
wind.  We  shuddered  to  think  of  what  would  have 
been  if  daylight  had  been  further  delayed  ! 

Out  of  the  mist  and  spray  we  bore  down  on  her 
and  flew  by,  close  to  her  stern.  We  could  see  figures 
on  her  poop  staring  and  pointing,  a  man  with 
glasses  at  his  eyes.  Only  a  fleeting  glimpse — for 
she  was  soon  swallowed  up  by  the  murk  astern, 
and  we  were  driving  on.  The  shift  of  wind  came 
suddenly.  Nearly  at  noon  there  was  a  heavier 
fall  of  rain,  a  shrieking  squall  that  blew  as  it  had 
never  blown.  The  Old  Man  marked  the  signs — 
the  scud  of  the  upper  clouds,  a  brightening  low 
down  in  the  south. 

"  Stan'  by  .  .  .  head  .  .  .  yards,"  he  yelled, 
shouting  hoarsely  to  be  heard.  "  Quick  .  .  .  the 
word  !  " 

All  hands  struggled  to  the  braces,  battling  through 
the  wash  of  icy  water  that  swept  over  the  decks. 

The  squall  passed,  followed  by  a  lull  that  served 
us  to  cant  the  yards  ;  then,  sharp  as  a  knife-thrust, 
the  wind  came  howling  out  of  the  sou'-west.  The 
rain  ceased  and  the  sky  cleared  as  by  a  miracle. 


1 84        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Still  it  blew  and  the  seas,  turned  by  the  shift  of 
wind,  broke  and  shattered  in  a  whirl  of  confusion. 
For  a  time  we  laboured  through  the  treacherous 
cross  sea — the  barque  fretting  and  turning  to  wind- 
ward, calling  for  all  of  '  Dutchy's  '  cunning  at  the 
helm,  but  it  was  none  so  ill  with  the  sun  in  sight 
and  a  clearing  overhead. 

"  Blast  ye,"  said  the  Old  Man,  shaking  his  be- 
numbed arms  towards  the  sou'-west.  "  Blast  ye — 
but  ye've  been  a  long  time  comin'  !  " 

The  wind  was  now  to  his  liking,  it  was  the 
weather  he  had  looked  for,  and  sure  enough,  as 
quick  succeeding  squalls  rolled  up  on  us,  the  sea 
grew  less  and  ran  truer,  and  the  barque  sailed 
easier.  The  wind  fell  to  a  moderate  gale,  and  by 
four  in  the  afternoon  we  had  a  reefed  foresail 
and  the  tops'ls  set,  and  were  staggering  along  at  a 
great  speed. 

The  decks  were  yet  awash,  there  was  no  comfort 
on  deck  or  below ;  but  through  it  all  we  had  one 
consoling  thought :  East,  half  south,  we  were 
covering  the  leagues  that  lay  between  us  and  our 
journey's  end  I 


ADRIFT 


Facing  page  185 


XVII 

ADRIFT  t 

/^AR-CONDUCTING  may  be  a  work  of  nice- 
^-^  ness  and  despatch,  but  it  is  ill  training  for 
working  on  the  spars  of  a  rolling  ship.  John  Cutler 
was  mousing  clew-blocks  on  the  main-yardarm, 
the  ship  lurched  heavily,  the  foot-ropes  were  wet 
and  slippery,  and  John,  ill-balanced  and  unready, 
was  cast  into  the  sea.  Instant,  there  was  the  cry 
P  Man  overboard  "  ;  the  Old  Man  ordered  the  helm 
down,  and,  springing  to  the  rack,  threw  a  lifebuoy 
from  the  starboard  quarter ;  the  Second  Mate, 
not  seeing  him  throw  it,  threw  another  from  the 
port. 

We  were  below  at  the  time,  just  after  dinner, 
about  to  turn  in,  when  we  heard  the  call.  All 
hands  ran  on  deck.  The  watch  were  swinging 
the  head  yards ;  some  were  unlashing  the  lee 
boat.  We  joined  them,  tore  the  cover  off,  hooked 
the  tackles,  and  swung  her  out.     There  was  con- 

185 


1 86        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

fusion ;  the  Old  Man  and  the  Mate  zh outing  cross 
orders,  the  boat  swinging  wildly  on  the  tackles, 
men  crowding  about  the  rail. 

"  Another  hand  in  the  boat,"  yelled  the  Second 
Mate,  as  he  sprang  into  the  stern-sheets,  "  lower 
away,  you  !  " 

There  was  a  whirr  of  block  sheaves,  the  falls 
smoking  on  the  pins,  a  splash,  a  rush  of  water  on 
the  rusty  side.  "  Bow  off,  there  !  Bow  off,  you  !  " 
and  I  found  myself  in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  tugging 
frantically  at  the  heft  of  a  long  oai. 

There  was  that  in  the  steady  clack — clack-a  of 
oar  on  rowlock  to  soothe  the  tremors  of  our  moment 
of  excited  haste.  Astern  was  the  barque,  her  main- 
yards  aback,  rolling  heavily  athwart  the  swell ;  we 
were  leaving  her  slowly,  for,  though  the  breeze  was 
light,  we  had  to  climb  the  long  steep  slopes  of  a 
Cape  Horn  swell.  Old  Martin's  broad  back  was 
bent  to  the  oar  in  front  of  me,  Houston  beyond, 
and  the  bo'sun  at  the  stroke.  The  Second  Mate 
was  standing  up  at  the  tiller,  listening  for  a  hail, 
gazing  anxiously  ahead  for  gleam  of  a  painted  life- 
buoy. Clack — clack-a,  clack — clack-a  ;  the  bo'sun 
was  setting  us  a  feverish  stroke ;  it  couldn't  last. 
Clack — clack-a,  clack — clack-a  ;  we  were  already 
breathing   heavily.     Up   and   down    the   heaving 


ADRIFT!  187 

swell  we  went ;  crawling  laboured  to  the  crown 
— the  shudder,  and  the  quick,  sickening  descent ! 
Clack — clack-a !  Would  it  ever  end  ?  Now  I 
was  pulling  out  of  stroke — a  feeble  paddle.  My 
neck  !  I  had  the  pain  there  !  .  .  .  "  Bow,  there  ! 
Lay  in,  an'  keep  yer  eyes  about.  He  must  be  here 
somewhere !  " 

I  laid  in  my  oar,  and  faced  about.  We  could 
not  see  far,  the  swell  was  too  great.  When  the 
boat  rose  we  had  a  hasty  glimpse  of  the  face  of  the 
water,  but  in  the  hollow,  the  great  glassy  walls 
rose  ahead  and  astern.  We  thought  we  had  overrun 
the  distance,  and  lay-to  for  a  time.  Then  on  again, 
shouting  as  we  went.  The  Second  Mate  saw  some- 
thing on  the  crest  of  a  roller,  just  a  glimpse,  and 
we  pulled  to  it.  It  was  Cutler's  round  cap  ;  we 
had  steered  a  good  course.  Near  by  we  found  him 
with  his  arm  twisted  round  the  grab  rope  of  the 
lifebuoy.  He  was  dazed  and  quiet  when  we  dragged 
him  over  the  stern. 

"  Oh,  Chris'  !    Oh,  Chris'  !  "  was  all  he  said. 

We  were  about  to  return  when  Mr.  M'Kellar 
thought  of  the  second  lifebuoy. 

"  Bow,  there  !  D'ye  see  the  other  buoy  ;  it'll 
be  somewhere  t'  th'  norrard  !  " 

I  stood  up,  unsteadily.     There  was  something 


1 88        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

white  in  the  hollow  of  a  farther  roller.  We  edged 
over ;  it  was  but  a  fleck  of  foam.  Farther  over, 
up  and  down  the  swell  we  climbed  until  we  found 
it.  We  turned  to  row  back.  "  Back  starboard  ! 
Pull  port,  you  !  "  the  boat's  head  swung  round, 
and  we  rose  quickly  on  the  following  swell. 

There  was  a  startled  cry  from  the  stern-sheets, 
"  0  Dhia  !    0  Dhia  !  " 

Well  might  M'Kellar  cry  out,  for,  unobserved  of 
any,  the  mist  had  closed  in  on  us.  There  was  no 
ship  in  sight,  no  point  to  steer  for — nothing  to  guide  ; 
there  was  only  the  great  glassy  walls  rising  and 
falling,  moving  up  into  the  thickening  mist. 

A  panic  seized  us ;  furiously  we  rowed,  driving 
the  boat  into  it  with  no  thought  of  course  or  dis- 
tance. She  was  awash  underfoot  before  we  ex- 
hausted ourselves,  and  lay,  breathing  heavily, 
over  the  oars. 

The  bo'sun  was  the  first  to  regain  a  state  of 
sanity.  "  Vast  rowin',"  he  cried  ;  "  vast  rowin'  ! 
We  cawn't  do  no  good  like  this.  Liy  'er  to,  Mister ! 
Liy-to  ;  it's  the  ownly  thing  !  " 

M'Kellar  put  the  tiller  over,  and  we  brought  her 
head  to  swell  again. 

We  stood  up,  all  eyes  a-watching ;  we  shouted 
together,  listened  intent ;    there  was  no  friendly 


ADRIFT!  189 

sail  looming  in  the  mist,  no  answer  to  our  cries. 
We  rowed  aimlessly.  Sometimes  we  fancied  we 
could  hear  a  hail  or  a  creak  of  blocks.  We  would 
lash  blindly  at  the  oars  till  the  foam  flew,  then 
lie-to  again.  There  was  no  compass  in  the  boat, 
no  food  ;  only  a  small  barreca  of  water.  Sometimes 
it  is  thick  weather  off  the  Horn  for  days !  If  the 
mist  held  ? 

Cutler,  crouching,  shivering  in  the  stern-sheets, 
began  to  cry  like  a  child.  Cold,  wet,  unnerved, 
he  was  feeling  it  worst  of  us  all.  "  Shut  up," 
said  the  Second  Mate,  dragging  off  his  jacket  and 
throwing  it  over  the  shivering  lad.  Old  Martin 
was  strangely  quiet ;  he,  too,  was  shivering.  He 
had  been  just  about  to  turn  in  when  he  heard  the 
call,  and  was  ill-clad  for  boat  service.  Only  once 
did  he  show  a  bit  of  his  old  gallant  truculence. 
"  All  right,  Mister  !  If  we  loses  track  o'  th'  ship, 
we've  got  plenty  o'  prewisions  !  We  can  eat  them 
lifebuoys,  wot  ye  was  so  keen  a-gettin'  !  " 

"  Oh,  quit  yer  chinnin',  ye  old  croak  !  'Oo's 
talkin'  abaht  losin'  track  o'  th'  ship  !  "  The  bo'sun 
didn't  like  to  think  !  Cutler  became  light-headed, 
and  began  to  talk  wildly ;  he  would  stand  up, 
pointing  and  shouting  out,  "  There  she  is,  there  !  " 
Then  he  began  to  make  queer  noises,  and  became 


igo        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

very  quiet.  There  was  the  canvas  boat  cover  lying 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  The  bo'sun  put  this 
round  him,  and  I  was  ordered  aft  to  rub  him 
down. 

The  cold  became  intense.  When  the  heat  of  our 
mad  spurt  had  passed,  depression  came  on  us  and 
we  cowered,  chilled  to  the  marrow  by  the  mist, 
on  the  gratings  of  the  heaving  boat.  Long  we  lay 
thus,  Houston  and  the  bo'sun  pulling  a  listless 
stroke  to  keep  her  head  to  the  swell.  We  had  no 
count  of  time.    Hours  must  have  passed,  we  thought. 

"  The  Dago  '11  hae  ma  trick  at  th'  wheel,  noo," 
said  Houston  strangely.  "  It  wis  ma  turn  at  fower 
bells  !  " 

No  one  heeded  him. 

"  They'll  hae  tae  shift  some  o'  th'  hauns  i'  th' 
watches,  eh  ?  .  .  .  wi'  you,  an'  Martin,  an'  th' 
young  fla'  no'  there  !  "  he  continued. 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  damn  ye  !  Shut  up,  an'  listen. 
0  Dhia  !  can  ye  hear  nocht  ?  "  M'Kcllar,  standing 
up  on  the  stern-sheets,  was  casting  wild  glances 
into  the  pall  that  enshrouded  us.  "  Here  !  All  to- 
gether, men — a  shout !  " 

A  weakly  chorus  went  out  over  the  water. 

Silence. 

Suddenly  Houston  stood  up.    "  Maister,  did  ye 


ADRIFT!  191 

hear  that — a  cheep !  "  We  thought  that  he  was 
going  off  like  Cutler  ;  we  could  hear  nothing.  "  A 
cheep,  Ah  telt  ye,  Maister ;  a  cheep,  as  shair's 
daith !  "  Houston  was  positive.  "  The  jerk  o'  a 
rudder,  or  "  .  .  .  Almost  on  top  of  us  there  was 
a  flash  of  blinding  fire,  the  roar  of  a  gun  followed  ! 

We  sprang  to  the  oars,  shouting  madly — shap- 
ing out  of  the  mist  was  the  loom  of  a  square  sail, 
there  was  sound  of  a  bell  struck.  No  need  now 
to  talk  of  eating  lifebuoys ;  Houston  would  be  in 
time  for  his  trick  at  the  wheel ! 

"  What  th'  blazes  kept  ye,  Mister  ?  We  saw  ye 
pickin'  th'  man  up  !  What  made  ye  turn  t'  th' 
norrard  ?  "  The  Old  Man  had  a  note  of  anger  in 
his  voice. 

"  Well,  Sir,  we  couldn't  see  th'  other  buoj^ 
an'  I  thought  it  a  peety  if  we  didn't  pick  it  up ; 
an'  while  we  were  lookin'  for  it,  we  lost  track  o' 
th'  ship,"  said  Mister  M'Kellar,  ashamed  and 
miserable. 

The  Mate  broke  in,  "  Ye  damn  fool !  D'ye 
mean  t'  tell  us  ye  risked  a  whole  boat's  crew  for 
a  tuppence-ha'penny  lifebuoy  ?  B'gad,  it  would 
serve  ye  right  if  ye  had  t'  go  seekin'  like  th'  Flying 
Dutchman  !  "     The  Mate  continued  to  curse  such 


i92        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

stupidity,  but  the  Old  Man,  though  permitting 
the  Mate  to  rail,  was  wonderfully  silent.  After  all, 
M'Kellar,  like  himself,  was  a  Scotchman,  and  much 
may  be  forgiven  to  a  Scotchman — looking  after 
his  owners'  property  1 


XVIII 

-AFTER   FORTY   YEAR!" 


MARTIN?  "...  "Huh!"    " 
"  fee  /  "        "  Txran^r  ?  " 


Lewis?"  .  .  . 
Iss  !  "  "  Granger  ?"..."  'Ere  !  " 
"Ulricks?  "..."  Yaf"  "Dago  Joe  ?"...  "Serf" 
"  'Ansen  ?"..."  Yep !  "  "  Bunn  ?  "  .  . .  "  Yes ! " 
"  Munro  ?  "  .  .  .  "  i/^  /  "  "  Eccles  ?— Eccles  ! 
— ECC — Damn  your  eyes,  lay  'long  'ere  !  You 
goin'  t'  keep  awl  'ans  waitin'  ?  "  Eccles  joined  us 
fumbling  with  the  buttons  of  his  jacket.  (Eccles, 
for  the  time  limit !)  "  Awl  'ere,"  continued  the 
bo 'sun  ;  then  reported  to  the  Mate,  "  Watch  is 
aft,  Sir  !  " 

A  surly  growl  that  might  have  been,  "  Relieve 
the  wheel  and  look-out,"  came  from  the  poop,  and 
we  were  dismissed  muster ;  the  starboard  watch 
to  their  rest ;  we  of  the  port  to  take  our  turn 
on  deck. 

It  was  a  cold,  raw  morning  that  fell  to  our  lot. 
A  light  wind,  blowing  from  north  of  west  in  fitful 
o  193 


194        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

puffs,  scarcely  slanted  the  downpour  of  thin,  in- 
sistent rain  ;  rain  that  by  the  keenness  of  it  ought 
to  have  been  snow  or  sleet.  The  sea  around  was 
shrouded  in  mist,  and  breaking  day,  coming  in 
with  a  cold,  treacherous  half-light,  added  to  the 
illusion  that  made  the  horizon  seem  scarcely  a 
length  away.  The  barque  was  labouring  unsteadily, 
with  a  long  westerly  swell — the  ghost  of  the  Cape 
Horn  '  greybeards  ' — running  under  her  in  oily 
ridges. 

It  needed  but  a  bite  of  freshening  wind  to  rouse 
the  sea ;  at  the  lash  of  a  sudden  gale  the  '  grey- 
beards '  would  be  at  us  again — whelming  and  sweep- 
ing. Even  in  quiet  mood  they  were  loath  to  let 
us  go  north,  and  we  jarred  and  rattled,  rolled, 
lurched,  and  wallowed  as  they  hove  at  us.  Heave 
as  they  did,  we  were  still  able  to  make  way  on  our 
course,  standing  with  yards  in  to  the  quartering 
wind  and  all  plain  sail  on  her. 

Thick  weather !  The  horizon  closed  to  us  at  a 
length  or  so  ahead.  But  she  was  moving  slowly, 
four  knots  at  the  most,  and  we  were  well  out  of  the 
track  of  ships  !  Oh,  it  was  all  right — all  right ; 
and  aft  there  the  Mate  leaned  over  the  poop  rail 
with  his  arms  squared  and  his  head  nodding — 
now  and  then  ! 


" AFTER    FORTY  YEAR!"     195 

As  the  light  grew,  it  seemed  to  bring  intenser  cold. 
Jackets  were  not  enough  ;  we  donned  coats  and 
oilskins  and  stamped  and  stamped  on  the  fore- 
deck,  yawning  and  muttering  and  wishing  it  was 
five  o'clock  and  the  '  doctor '  ready  with  the  blessed 
coffee  :  the  coffee  that  would  make  men  of  us  ; 
vile  '  hogwash  '  that  a  convict  would  turn  his  face 
at,  but  what  seemed  nectar  to  us  at  daybreak, 
down  there  in  fifty-five  ! 

By  one  bell  the  mist  had  grown  denser,  and  the 
Mate  sung  out  sudden  and  angrily  for  the  foghorn 
to  be  sounded. 

"  Three  blasts,  d'ye  'ear,"  said  the  bo'sun,  passing 
the  horn  up  to  Dago,  the  look-out.     "  Uno  !  . 
Doo  /  .  .  .  Tray  !  "     (Three  fingers  held  up.)  . 
"  Tray,  ye  burnt  scorpion  !  .  .  .  An'  see  that  ye 
sounds   'em   proper,    or   I'll   come   up    there    an 
hide  th'   soul-case  out  o'  ye  !  .  .  .  (Cow-punchin 
hoodlum !      Good     job     I     knows     'is     bloomin 
lingo  !)  " 

Now  we  had  a  tune  to  our  early  rising,  a  doleful 
tune,  a  tune  set  to  the  deepening  mist,  the  heaving 
sea,  at  dismal  break  of  day.  R-r-ah  !  .  .  .  R-r-ah  ! 
.  .  .  Ra!  was  the  way  it  ran  ;  a  mournful  bar, 
with  windy  gasps  here  and  there,  for  Dago  Joe 
was  more  accustomed  to  a  cowhorn. 


196        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  A  horn,"  said  Welsh  John  suddenly.  "  Did  'oo 
hear  it  ?  " 

No  one  had  heard.  We  were  gathered  round  the 
galley  door,  all  talking,  all  telling  the  '  doctor ' 
the  best  way  to  light  a  fire  quickly. 

"  Iss !     A  horn,   I   tell   'oo  !  .  .  .  Listen  !  .  . 
Just  after  ours  is  sounded  !  " 

R-r-ah !  .  .  .  R-r-ah  /  .  .  .  R-ah !  Joe  was  im- 
proving. 

We  listened  intently.  ..."  There  now,"  said 
John! 

Yes  !  Sure  enough  !  Faint  rasps  answering  ours. 
Ulrichs  said  three  ;   two,  I  thought ! 

"  Don't  ye  'ear  that  'orn,  ye  dago  fiddler," 
shouted  the  bo'sun.  .  .  .  'Ere  !  Hup  there,  one 
of  ye,  an'  blow  a  proper  blast !  That  damn  hood- 
lum !  Ye  couldn't  'ear  'is  trumpetin'  at  th'  back 
of  an  area  railin's  !  " 

John  went  on  the  head ;  the  bo'sun  aft  to 
report. 

A  proper  blast !  The  Welshman  had  the  trick  of 
the  wheezing  '  gadjet.'  ...  Ah  !  There  again  ! 
.  .  .  Three  blasts,  right  enough  !  .  .  .  She  would 
be  a  square  rigger,  running,  like  ourselves  !  .  .  . 
Perhaps  we  were  making  on  her  1  .  .  .  The  sound 
seemed  louder.  ...  It  came  from  ahead  ! 


" AFTER    FORTY   YEAR!"     197 

R-R-R-R-R-AH  !  .  .  .  R-R-R-R-R-AH  !  .  .  .  R-R-R-R-R- 

AH  ! 

.  .  .  R-r-r-r-eh  !  .  .  .  R-r-r-r-eh  !  .  .  .  R-r-r-r-eh  ! 

The  Mate  was  now  on  the  alert,  peering  and 
listening.  At  the  plain  answer  to  our  horn,  he 
rapped  out  orders.  "  Lower  away  main  an'  fore- 
to'gal'ns'ls  ...  let  'em  hang,  an'  lay  aft  and  haul 
th'  mains'l  up  !  Come  aft  here,  one  of  you  boys, 
and  call  th'  Captain  !  Tell  him  it's  come  down 
thick  !    Sharp,  now  !  " 

I  went  below  and  roused  the  Old  Man. 

"  Aye  ...  all  right,"  he  said,  feeling  for  his  sea- 
boots.  (South'ard  of  the  '  forties  '  Old  Jock  slept 
'  all  standing,'  as  we  say.).  ..."  Thick,  eh  ?  .  .  . 
Tell  th'  Mate  t'  keep  th'  horn  goin'  !  .  .  .  A  ship, 
ye  say  ?  .  .  .  Running,  eh  ?  .  .  .  Aye  !  All  right 
.  .  .  Ill  be  up.  .  .  ." 

I  had  scarcely  reached  the  poop  again  before  the 
Old  Man  was  at  my  back.  "  Thick,  b'Goad,"  he 
said,  rubbing  his  eyes.  "  Man,  man  !  Why  was  I 
not  called  before  ?  " 

The  Mate  muttered  something  about  the  mist 
having  just  closed  in.  .  .  .  "  Clear  enough  t'  be 
goin'  on  before  that,"  he  said. 

"  Aye,  aye  !  Where  d'ye  mak'  this  ship  ?  Ye 
would  see  her  before  the  mist  cam'  doon,  eh  ?  " 


i98        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Sound  that  horn,  forrard  there,"  shouted  the 
Mate,  moving  off  to  the  gangway  !  "  Keep  that 
horn  going,  there  !  " 

John  pumped  a  stirring  blast.  .  .  .  R-r-r-r-r- 

AH  !  .  .   .  R-R-R-R-R-AH  !   .   .   .  R-R-R-R-R-AH  ! 

We  bent  forward  with  ears  strained  to  catch  the 
distant  note. 

.  .  .  R-r-r-r-eh  !  ...  At  the  first  answering  blast 
Old  Jock  raised  his  head,  glancing  fearfully  round. 

.  .  .  R-r-r-r-eh!  .  .  .   R-r-r-r "Down   helium! 

Down  hellum  !  DOWN,"  he  yelled,  running 
aft  to  the  wheel !  "  Haul  yards  forrard !  Le'go 
port  braces  !  Let  'm  rip  !  Le'go  an'  haul !  .  .  . 
Quick,  Mist'r  !  Christ !  What  ye  standin'  at  ? 
...  Ice  !  Ice,  ye  bluidy  eedi't !  Ice  !  Th'  echo  ! 
Let  go  !    Le'go  an'  haul  !    LE'GO  !  " 

Ice  !  The  Mate  stood  stupid  for  an  instant — then 
jumped  to  the  waist — to  the  brace  pins — roaring 
hoarse  orders.  "All  hands  on  deck!  Haul  away, 
there  !  All  hands  !  On  deck,  men — for  your 
lives  !  " 

Ice  !  At  the  dread  cry  we  ran  to  the  ropes  and 
tailed  on  with  desperate  energy  !  Ice  !  The  watch 
below,  part  dressed,  swarmed  from  house  and 
fo'cas'le  and  hauled  with  us — a  light  of  terror  in 
their  eyes — the  terror  that  comes  with  stark  reason 


« AFTER    FORTY  YEAR!"     199 

— when  the  brain  reels  from  restful  stupor  at  a 
trumpet  of  alarms  ! 

Ice  !  The  decks,  that  so  late  had  been  quiet  as  the 
air  about  us,  resounded  to  the  din  of  sudden  action  ! 
Yards  swinging  forward  with  a  crash — blocks 
whirring — ropes  hurtling  from  the  pins — sails  lifting 
and  thrashing  to  the  masts — shouts  and  cries  from 
the  swaying  haulers  at  the  ropes — hurried  orders — 
and,  loud  over  all,  the  raucous  bellow  of  the  fog- 
horn when  Dago  Joe,  dismayed  at  the  confusion, 
pumped  furiously,  Ra  !  Ra  !  Ra  !  Ra  !  Ra  ! 

.  .  .  Reh !  Reh !  Reh !  Reh !  Reh !  .  .  .  Note 
for  note — the  echo — out  of  the  mist ! 

"  Belay,  all !  Well,  mainyards  !  "  The  order 
steadied  us.  We  had  time  now  to  look  !  .  .  .  There 
was  nothing  in  sight !  ...  No  towering  monster 
looming  in  our  path — no  breakers — no  sea — no 
sky ;  nothing !  Nothing  but  the  misty  wall 
that  veiled  our  danger !  The  Unknown !  The 
Unseen  ! 

She  was  swinging  slowly  against  the  scend  of  the 
running  swell — laying  up  to  the  wind.  Martin  had 
the  wheel  and  was  holding  the  helm  down,  his  keen 
eyes  watching  for  the  lift  that  would  mark  the  limit 
of  steering-way.  The  Old  Man  stood  by  the  com- 
pass, bending,  peering,  snihing — nosing  at  the  keen 


200        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

air — his  quick  eyes  searching  the  mist — ahead — 
abeam — astern.  .  .  .  Martin  eased  the  helm ;  she 
lay  quietly  with  sails  edged  to  the  wind,  the  long 
swell  heaving  at  her — broadside  on. 

Suddenly  a  light  grew  out  of  the  mist  and  spread 
out  on  both  bows — a  luminous  sheen,  low  down 
on  the  narrowed  sea-line  !  The  '  ice-blink  '  !  Cold  ! 
White  ! 

At  the  first  glow  the  Old  Man  started — his  lips 
framed  to  roar  an  order  !  ...  No  order  came ! 

Quickly  he  saw  the  hopelessness  of  it ;  what  was 
to  happen  was  plain,  inevitable  !  Broad  along  the 
beam,  stretching  out  to  leeward,  the  great  dazzling 
'  ice-blink '  warned  him  of  a  solid  barrier,  miles  long, 
perhaps  !  The  barque  lay  to  the  wind,  at  mercy 
of  the  swell,  drifting  dead  to  leeward  at  every 
heave  !  ...  On  the  other  tack,  perhaps  ?  There 
was  a  misty  gap  to  the  south  of  us  ;  no  '  ice-blink ' 
there  !  ...  If  she  could  be  put  about  ?  .  .  .  No, 
there  was  no  chance  !  ...  To  gather  speed  to  put 
her  about  he  would  have  to  bear  off  towards  the 
brightening  sheen !  Already  the  roar  of  the  swell, 
lashing  at  the  base,  was  loud  in  our  ears !  .  .  . 
There  was  no  room !  No  sea-room  to  wear  or 
stay ! 

"  Embayed  1 "    he    said    bitterly,    turning    his 


" AFTER    FORTY  YEAR!"     201 

palms  up !  .  .  .  "All  hands  aft  and  swing  th' 
port  boat  out !  " 

The  port  boat  ?  The  big  boat  ?  Had  it  come, 
so  soon,  to  that  ?  More  than  one  of  us  cast  an 
anxious  look  at  the  broad  figure  of  our  Master  as 
we  ran  aft.  He  stood  quite  still,  glaring  out  at  the 
ice  ring. 

"  This  is  it,  eh  !  "  he  muttered,  unheeding  the 
stir  and  cries  of  us.  "  This  is  it — after  forty 
year !  " 

Madly  we  tore  and  knifed  at  the  lashings,  work- 
ing to  clear  the  big  boat.  She  was  turned  down  on 
the  skids  (the  fashion  of  thrifty  '  limejuicers'), 
bound  and  bolted  to  stand  the  heavy  weather. 
We  were  handless,  unnerved  b}^  the  suddenness  of 
it  all,  faulty  at  the  task.  The  roar  of  breaking  water 
spurred  us  on.  ...  A  heave  together  !  .  .  .  . 
Righted,  we  hooked  the  falls  and  swayed  her  up. 
The  Mate  looked  aft  for  the  word.  "  Aye,"  said 
the  Old  Man.     "  Oot  wi'  her,  an'  try  tae  tow  th' 

heid  roun'  !    On  th'  ither  tack  we  micht "    He 

left  the  words  unfinished !  Well  he  knew  we 
could  never  drag  three  thousand  tons  against 
that  swell ! 

A  wild  outcry  turns  our  eyes  forward.  Dago  Joe 
(forgotten    on    the   lookout)    is    running    aft,    his 


202        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

precious  horn  still  slung  from  his  shoulders.  "Ar- 
retto !  Arretto  I  Arreito  t"  He  yells  as  he  runs. 
"  Arretto,  Capitan  !  "  waving  his  arms  and  signing 
to  the  Old  Man  to  stop  the  ship  !  Behind  him, 
over  the  bows,  we  see  the  clear  outline  of  a  small 
berg — an  outflung  '  calf '  of  the  main  ice  !  There 
is  no  time  !  Nothing  can  be  done  !  Small  as  the 
berg  is — not  the  height  of  our  lower  yards — it  has 
weight  enough  to  sink  us,  when  aided  by  the  heav- 
ing swell ! 

"  Quick  with  th'  boat,  there,"  yells  the  Old  J.Ian  ! 
He  runs  over  to  the  companion-way  and  dives  below, 
jostling  the  Second  Mate,  who  is  staggering  up  under 
a  weight  of  biscuit  bags. 

In  a  moment  we  have  closed  with  the  ice  and  are 
hammering  and  grinding  at  the  sheer  glistening 
wall.  At  the  first  impact  the  boom  goes  with  a 
crash  !  Then  fore-to 'gallant  mast — yards — sails — 
rigging — all  hurtling  to  the  head,  driving  the  decks 
in  !  A  shelf  of  solid  ice,  tons  weight  of  it,  crashes 
aboard  and  shatters  the  fore-hatch  !  Now  there  is 
a  grind  and  scream  of  buckling  iron,  as  the  beams 
give  to  the  strain — ring  of  stays  and  guy-ropes, 
parting  at  high  tension— crash  of  splintering  wood  ! 
The  heaving  monster  draws  off,  reels,  and  comes 
at  us  again  !    Another  blow  and 


M AFTER    FORTY  YEAR!"     203 

"  'Vast  lowering  !  Hold  on  !  Hold  on  the  boat 
there  !  "  The  Old  Man,  come  on  deck  with  his 
treasured  papers,  has  seen  more  than  the  wreck  of 
the  head  !  He  runs  to  the  compass — a  look — then 
casts  his  eyes  aloft.  "  Square  mainyards !  " 
His  voice  has  the  old  confident  ring  :  the  ring  we 
know.  "  Square  main  yards  !  .  .  .  A  hand  t'  th' 
wheel !  " 

Doubting,  we  hang  around  the  boat.  She  swings 
clear,  all  ready  !  The  jar  of  a  further  blow  sets 
us  staggering  for  foothold  !  What  chance  ?  .  .  . 
"A  hand  t'  th'  wheel,  here,"  roars  the  Old 
Man.  Martin  looks  up  .  .  .  goes  back  to  his 
post. 

A  man  at  the  wheel  again  !  No  longer  the  fearful 
sight  of  the  main  post  deserted ;  no  longer  the 
jar  and  rattle  of  a  handless  helm  !  Martin's  action 
steadies  us.  What  dread,  when  the  oldest  of  us 
all  stands  there  grasping  the  spokes,  waiting  the 
order  ?  .  .  .  We  leave  the  swinging  boat  and 
hurry  to  the  braces  ! 

A  '  chance  '  has  come  !  The  power  of  gales  long 
since  blown  out  is  working  a  way  for  us  :  the 
ghostly  descendants  of  towering  Cape  Horn  '  grey- 
beards '  have  come  to  our  aid  ! 

As  we  struck,  sidling  on  the  bows,  the  swell  has 


2o4        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

swept  our  stern  round  the  berg.  Now  we  are 
head  to  wind  and  the  big  foresail  is  flat  against 
the  mast,  straining  stern  ward  ! 

It  is  broad  day,  and  we  see  the  *  calf '  plainly  as 
we  drift  under  stern- way  apart.  The  gap  widens  ! 
A  foot — a  yard — an  oar's-length  !  Now  the  wind 
stirs  the  canvas  on  the  main — a  clew  lifts — the 
tops'ls  rustle  and  blow  out,  drawing  finely  !  Her 
head  still  swings  ! 

"  Foreyards  !  Le'go  an'  haul !  "  roars  the  Old 
Man.  We  are  stern  on  to  the  main  ice.  Already 
the  swell — recurving  from  the  sheer  base — is  hissing 
and  breaking  about  us.  There  is  little  room  for 
sternboard.  "  Le'go  an'  haul !  "  We  roar  a  heart- 
ening chorus  as  we  drag  the  standing  head  yards 
in. 

Slowly  she  brings  up  .  .  .  gathers  way  .  .  .  moves 
ahead  !  The  '  calf  '  is  dead  to  windward,  the  loom 
of  the  main  ice  astern  and  a-lee.  The  wind 
has  strengthened  :  in  parts  the  mist  has  cleared. 
Out  to  the  south'ard  a  lift  shows  clear  water. 
We  are  broad  to  the  swell  now,  but  sailing  free  as 
Martin  keeps  her  off !  From  under  the  bows  the 
broken  boom  (still  tethered  to  us  by  stout  guy- 
ropes)  thunders  and  jars  as  we  move  through  the 
water. 


« AFTER    FORTY  YEAR!"     205 

"  Cut  and  clear  away  !  "  roars  Old  Jock.  "  Let 
her  go  !  " 

Aye,  let  her  go  !  ...  We  are  off  .  .  .  crippled 
an'  all  .  .  .  out  for  open  sea  again  I 


XIX 

IN   LITTLE   'SCOTLAND' 

["  T  was  to  no  purpose  that  Lloyds'  agent  pointed 
■*  out  the  convenience  and  advantage  of  the 
inner  port :  it  was  as  useless  for  the  local  pilot  to 
look  grave  and  recall  dire  happenings  to  Captains 
who  had  elected  to  effect  their  repairs  in  the  outer 
harbour — just  here,  at  Port  William.  Old  Jock's 
square  jaw  was  set  firm,  his  eyes  were  narrowed  to 
a  crafty  leer ;  he  looked  on  everyone  with  uncon- 
cealed suspicion  and  distrust.  He  was  a  shipmaster 
of  the  old  school,  '  looking  after  his  Owners'  in- 
terest.' He  had  put  in  '  in  distress  '  to  effect  re- 
pairs. ...  He  was  being  called  upon  to  spend 
money  ! 

"  No,  no  !  "  he  said  to  all  their  reasoning.  "  My 
anchor's  doon,  an'  here  I  stoap  !  I've  conseedered 
a'  that  ye've  pit  furrit !  '  Convenience  tae  th' 
toon,  if  supplies  are  needit '  ?  (I'll  no'  need  that 
mony  !)...'  Nae  distance  tae  bring  th'  workin' 

206 


IN    LITTLE    'SCOTLAND'       207 

gang '  ?  (I've  a  wheen  men  here  mysel'  !)  .  .  . 
'  Nae  dues  tae  pay '  ?  (We're  jist  as  cheap  here  !) 
.  .  .  No,  no,  Maister  Fordyce  !  Ye  can  jist  mak' 
up  yeer  mind  on  that !  We'll  dae  a'  th'  repairs 
oot  here  !    I'm  no'  comin'  in  !  " 

"  Oh  weel !  Jist  as  ye  like,  Captain  !  Jist  as 
ye  like  !  .  .  .  But — as  th'  pilot  here  '11  tell  ye — 
ye're  in  a  verra  bad  poseetion  if  it  comes  on  tae 
blow  f  ae  the  south-east !  An'  south-east  's  a  hard 
win',  I'm  tellin'  ye  !  " 

"  Aye,  aye  !  Jist  that !  .  .  .  Weel,  if  it  comes 
tae  blow  frae  th'  south-east  (I'm  no  much  feart  o' 
that  at  this  time  0'  th'  year)  we're  in  a  guid  berth 
tae  slip  anchor  an'  run  her  in  tae  Port  Stanley. 
It'll  be  time  enough  then  !  But  I'm  no'  goin'  in 
there  if  I  can  help  it !  ...  If  I  brocht  her  in 
therr  " — pointing  to  the  narrows  that  led  to  the 
inner  harbour — "  I  micht  hae  tae  wait  for  a  fair 
win'  tae  bring  her  oot,  when  oor  bit  damage  is 
sortit.  .  .  .  No,  no  !  We'll  dae  fine  oot  here. 
Smooth  watter  !    Guid  holdin'  ground  !  " 

"  Oh,  the  holding  ground  is  all  right,"  said 
the  pilot.  "  Eight  fathom  .  .  .  mud  and  stones  ! 
Good  enough  for  anything  but  south  or  south- 
east." 

"  Oh,  aye  !  "  continued  the  Old  Man.     "  We'll 


208        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

dae  fine  here.  ...  If  it  vvisna'  for  that  bowsprit 
bein'  steeved  up  and  th'  rivets  stertit  in  th'  bows 
o'  her,  I  widna'  be  here  at  a'.  .  .  .  Spars  ?  .  .  . 
We  can  mak'  a'  th'  spars  oorsel's ;  tho'  I'm  no' 
sayin'  but  that  I'd  be  glad  o'  a  spar  or  twa — at  a 
moderate  cost.    A  moderate  cost,  mind  ye  !  " 

The  agent  laughed.  "  Oh  weel,  Captain  !  We're 
no'  exactly  Jews  doon  here,  though  they  say  an 
Aberdonian  (I'm  fa'e  Aberdeen  mysel')  is  th'  next 
thing  !  We  can  gi'e  ye  yeer  spaurs — at  a  mode- 
rate cost !  .  .  .  But  I'll  tell  ye  again,  Captain,  ye'll 
lose  time  by  stoappin'  oot  here.  A'  this  traffiking 
back  an'  furrit  tae  Port  Stanley !  Bringin'  th' 
workmen  aft  in  th'  mornin',  an'  takin'  them  hame 
at  e'en  !  Ye'll  no'  get  th'  smiths  tae  stey  oan  th' 
ship.  It'll  be,  '  Hey,  Jimmy  !  Whaur's  ma  lang 
drift  ?  '  or,  '  Jock,  did  ye  bring  oot  th'  big  "  Mon- 
day ?  "  '  .  .  .  an'  then  naethin'  '11  dae  but  they 
maun  be  awa'  back  tae  th'  Port,  tae  look  for  theer 
tools  in  th'  bar  o'  th'  Stanley  Airms  !  " 

"  Oh,  aye  !  "  said  the  Old  Man.  "  I  ken  them  ! 
They'll  be  as  keen  for  a  dram  doon  here  as  ony- 
where  !  But  we'll  attend  tae  that.  As  for  th' 
traffiking,  I've  a  big  boat  an'  a  wheen  idle  lauds 
therr  that'll  be  nane  the  waur  o'  a  lang  pull !  .  .  . 
Onyway,  I'm  no'  goin'  t'  risk  bein'  held  up  for  a 


IN    LITTLE    'SCOTLAND'      209 

fair  win'  when  th'  time  comes  ...  an'  ye  may 
tak'  it  that  we're  no'  goin'  t'  lose  time  owre  th' 
joab  !  A  wheen  smiths,  an'  mebbe  a  carpenter  or 
twa,  is  a'  I  want  ...  an'  if  we  can  arrange  wi' 
th'  Captain  o'  this  schooner — ye  were  speakin' 
aboot — t'  tak'  a  hunner'  or  a  hunner'  an'  fifty  ton 
o'  cargo  ...  for  th'  time  bein'.  ...  No  !  Jist 
twa  beams  tae  be  cut  an'  strappit.  ...  A  screw- 
jack  an'  a  forge  or  twa  !  We  can  .  .  .  straighten 
them  oot  in  their  place !  .  .  .  Naethin'  wrang 
below  th'  sheer  strake  !  .  .  .  Jist  plain  rivettin'.  ..." 

Talking  of  the  repairs  and  their  relation  to  the 
great  god  of  Economy,  Old  Jock  led  the  way  to 
the  gangway  and  watched  his  visitors  depart. 

In  all  he  said  the  Old  Man  spoke  his  '  braidest ' 
Scotch.  This  was  right !  We  had  reached  the 
Falkland  Islands  in  safety,  and  what  more  natural 
than  that  he  should  speak  the  language  of  the 
country  ?  Even  the  German  saloon-keepers  who 
had  boarded  us  on  arrival — to  proffer  assistance  in 
our  distress — said  '  aye  '  for  yes,  and  '  Ach  !  Awa' 
wi'  ye  ' — a  jocular  negative  !  Nor  did  the  resem- 
blance to  our  '  ain  countree '  end  there.  Port 
William  was  typical  of  a  misty  Scotch  country- 
side :  the  land  about  us  was  as  bleak  and  home- 
like as  a  muirland  in  the  Stewartry. 


210        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

A  bare  hill-side  sloping  to  the  sea,  with  here  and 
there  straggling  acres  of  cultivated  land.  A  few 
wooden  houses  nestling  in  the  bends  and  gullies, 
where  small  streamlets  ran.  Uplands,  bare  of  trees 
and  hedge  growth,  stretching  away  inland  in  a 
smooth  coat  of  waving  grass.  Grass,  grass,  grass — a 
sheep  fank — a  patch  of  stony  hill-side — a  solitary 
hut,  with  blue  smoke  curling  above — a  misty  sky-line 
— lowering  clouds,  and  the  setting  sun  breaking 
through  in  fleeting  patches.  Port  William  !  A 
quiet  place  for  anchorage  after  our  stormy  times  ! 
No  ships  riding  with  us  under  the  lee  of  the  land  ! 
No  sign  of  human  life  or  movement  in  the  lonely 
bay  !  No  noise  !  Quiet !  Only  the  plaintive  cries 
of  sea-birds  that  circled  and  wheeled  about  us,  and 
the  distant  baa-ing  of  sheep  on  the  green  hill-side  I 


1  No  time  was  to  be  lost,'  as  the  Old  Man  had 
said.  Soon  the  quiet  of  our  lonely  anchorage  was 
broken  by  a  din  of  strenuous  work.  The  sea-birds 
flew  affrighted  from  the  clang  of  fore-hammers  and 
the  roar  of  forge  fires. 

Our  damage  was  all  on  the  bows.  The  to'gallan'- 
mast,  in  its  fall,  had  wrecked  the  starboard  side  of 
the  fo'cas'le;    the  decks  were  smashed  in;    some 


IN    LITTLE    'SCOTLAND'       211 

beams  were  broken,  others  were  twisted  and  bent. 
The  hull  plating  had  not  escaped,  and  a  big  rent 
showed  where  the  grinding  ice  had  forced  the 
stout  cat-head  from  its  solid  bed.  These  were 
minor  affairs — something  might  have  been  done  to 
put  them  right  without  coming  to  port — but  the 
bowsprit !  Ah !  It  was  the  bowsprit  that  had 
brought  us  in ! 

"  It's  no  use  talking,"  the  Old  Man  had  said 
when  he  and  the  Mate  were  considering  the  damage. 
"  That  bowsprit !  .  .  .  Spars  ?  .  .  .  We  could  make 
th'  spars  good ;  ...  an'  we  could  do  a  fair  joab 
wi'  th'  ironwork  !  .  .  .  But  th'  bowsprit !  .  .  . 
No,  no  !  We  can't  sail  th'  ship  unless  we're  sure 
o'  th'  head-gear  !  ...  No  use !  No  use  talking, 
Mister  !  We'll  have  t'  bear  up  for  th'  Falklands, 
and  get  that  put  to  rights  !  " 

If  further  cause  were  needed  to  justify  the 
serious  course  of  '  putting  in,'  they  had  it  when 
the  carpenter  reported  water  in  the  forepeak ; 
and  it  was  discovered  that  the  broken  jibboom  had 
not  hammered  at  the  bows  for  nothing.  No  hesi- 
tation then  !    No  talk  !    The  course  was  set ! 

Although  the  Falklands  are  famed  as  a  refuge 
for  vessels  '  in  distress,'  there  was  then  no  great 
facilities  for  repair.    It  is  enough  if  the  ships  stag- 


212        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

ger  into  port  in  time  to  save  the  lives  of  their 
crews.  Port  Stanley  had  many  such  sheer  hulks 
King  to  rust  and  decay  in  the  landlocked  harbour. 
Good  ships  that  had  cleared  from  the  Channel  in 
seaworthiness  ;  crossed  the  Line  with  a  boastful 
"All  well !  "  to  a  homeward-bounder ;  steered 
south  into  the  '  roaring  forties  ' — to  meet  disaster 
in  fire,  or  wind,  or  sea,  and  falter  into  the  Falk- 
lands  with  the  boats  swung  out ! 

There  was  then  no  firm  of  ship  repairers  on  the 
Islands.  The  most  Mr.  Fordyce  could  do  for  us 
was  to  find  workmen,  and  a  schooner  to  take  part 
of  our  cargo  and  lighten  us  sufficiently  to  get  at 
the  leaky  rivets.  Old  Jock  had  to  set  up  as  a 
master  shipwright  and  superintend  the  repairs 
himself.  And  who  better  ?  Had  he  not  set  Hous- 
ton's leg  as  straight  as  a  Gilmorehill  Professor 
could  ?  He  was  the  man  ;  and  there  was  no  sign 
of  hesitation  when  he  got  out  his  piece  of  chalk 
and  made  marks  (as  many  and  as  mysterious  as  a 
Clydeside  gaffer's)  on  the  damaged  ironwork ! 
Such  skilled  labour  as  he  could  get — '  smiths  ' 
from  the  sheep  camps  (handy  men,  who  were  by 
turns  stonemasons  or  woolpackers  or  ironworkers) — 
were  no  great  hands  at  ship-work ;  but  the  Old 
Man,  with  his  rough,  chalked  sketches,  could  make 


IN    LITTLE    'SCOTLAND*      213 

things  plain ;  he  had,  too,  the  great  advantage  of 
knowing  the  Islanders'  language  and  its  proper 
application  to  the  ordering  of  '  wis'like '  men ! 
What  might  have  been  put  elsewhere  as,  "What 
th'  hell  sort  of  work  do  you  call  this  ?  "  he  trans- 
lated to,  "  Man,  man,  Jock  Steel !  Could  ye  no' 
pit  a  fairer  bend  oan  that  knee  ?  "  .  .  .  Jock  (who 
would  have  thrown  down  his  tools,  and  "  on  with 
his  jacket  "  at  the  first)  would  perhaps  turn  red 
at  the  kindlier  reproof,  mutter  "  Well,  well,"  and 
have  another  try  at  the  stubborn  knee. 

It  was  slow  work,  for  all  the  din  and  clatter. 
Forge  fires  are  devilish  in  the  hands  of  an  un- 
skilled blower ;  rivets  break  and  twist  and  get 
chilled  when  the  striking  is  squint  and  irregular ; 
iron  is  tough  and  stubborn  when  leverage  is  mis- 
applied. There  were  difficulties.  (Difficulties  that 
wee  Jonny  Docherty,  a  Partick  rivet '  b'ye,'  would 
have  laughed  at !)  The  difficulty  of  strapping  cut 
beams  to  make  them  span  their  former  length  ; 
the  difficulty  of  small  rivets  and  big  holes,  of  small 
holes  and  big  rivets  .  .  .  the  sheer  despair  when 
sworn  measurements  go  unaccountably  and  mys- 
teriously wrong  in  practice. 

All  difficulties  !  Difficulties  to  be  met  and  over- 
come ! 


2i4        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Every  one  of  us  had  a  turn  at  the  ironwork. 
There  was  odd  work  that  we  could  do  while  the 
'  smiths  '  were  heating  and  hammering  at  the  more 
important  sections.  We  made  a  feeble  show,  most 
of  us ;  but  Joe  Granger  gained  honour  in  suggest- 
ing ways  and  showing  how  things  were  done.  It 
was  the  time  of  Granger's  life.  He  was  not  even 
a  good  sailorman.  His  steering  was  pitiful.  Didn't 
Jones  have  to  show  him  how  the  royal  buntlines 
led  ?  What  did  Martin  say  about  the  way  he 
passed  a  head-earring  ?  A  poor  sailorman  !  .  .  . 
Yet  here  he  was :  bossing  us  around ;  Able  Sea- 
men carrying  tools  to  him  ;  Old  Man  listening  quite 
decently  to  his  suggestions — even  the  hard-case 
Mate  (who  knew  Granger,  if  anyone  did)  not  above 
passing  a  word  now  and  then  !  .  .  .  And  all  be- 
cause Granger  had  worked  in  the  Union  Ironworks 
at  'Frisco.  At  first  I  am  sure  it  was  a  holder-on 
he  told  us  he  had  been,  but  before  our  job  had 
gone  far  it  was  a  whilom  foreman  shipwright  who 
told  us  what  was  to  be  done  !  ...  If  Armstrong, 
the  carpenter,  had  not  taken  up  a  firm  stand 
when  it  came  to  putting  in  the  deck,  there  would 
have  been  hints  that  we  had  a  former  under  - 
manager  among  us !  It  was  the  time  of  Joe's  life, 
and  the  bo'sun  could  only  chuckle  and  grin  and 


IN    LITTLE    'SCOTLAND'       215 

wag  his   head  in   anticipation  of  '  proper  sailor- 
work  '  on  the  mast  and  spars. 

It  was  good  for  us  brassbounders  to  lie  at  Port 
William,  where  there  was  little  but  the  work  in 
progress  to  interest  us.  In  the  half-deck  we  were 
full  of  ship  repairs.  Little  else  was  talked  about 
when  we  were  below.  Each  of  us  carried  a  small 
piece  of  chalk,  all  ready  to  make  rough  drawings 
to  explain  our  ideas.  We  chalked  on  the  walls, 
the  table,  the  deck,  the  sea-chests,  lines  and  cross- 
lines,  and  bends  and  knees — no  matter  what,  so 
long  as  there  were  plenty  of  round  "  O's  "  to  show 
where  the  rivets  were  to  go.  We  explained  to  one 
another  the  mysteries  of  ship  construction,  talked 
loftily  of  breasthooks  and  sheer  strakes,  and 
stringers  and  scantlings  .  .  .  and  were  as  wise 
after  the  telling  !  That  was  while  the  ironwork 
repairs  were  in  progress.  In  a  week  or  more  we 
were  spar-makers.  Jock  Steel  and  his  mates  put 
down  their  drifts  and  hammers,  and  took  up  adzes 
and  jack-planes.  We  were  getting  on  !  We  had 
no  time  for  anyone  who  drew  sketches  of  riveting. 
It  was  '  striking  cambers '  and  '  fairing '  and 
'  tapering  '  now,  and  Joe  Granger  got  a  cool  re- 
ception when  he  came  along  to  the  half-deck  after 
work  was  over  for  the  day.     Poor  Joe  had  fallen 


216        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

from  his  high  place  !  With  the  bowsprit  hovft 
down  and  securely  strapped  and  riveted,  and  the 
last  caulking  blow  dealt  at  the  leaky  doubling,  his 
services  became  of  small  account.  No  one  in  the 
fo'cas'le  would  listen  any  longer  to  his  tales  of 
structural  efficiency.  There  was  no  spar-making  in 
the  Union  Ironworks  at  'Frisco.  Joe  had  to  shut 
up,  and  let  Martin  and  the  bo'sun  instruct  the 
ship's  company  in  the  art  of  masting  and  rigging — 
illustrated  by  match-sticks  and  pipe-stems  ! 

There  were  pleasant  intervals  to  our  work  on 
board — days  when  we  rowed  the  big  boat  through 
the  Narrows  to  Port  Stanley  and  idled  about  the 
'  town,'  while  the  Old  Man  and  Mr.  Fordyce  were 
transacting  business  (under  good  conditions)  in 
the  bar-parlour  of  the  Stanley  Arms.  We  made 
many  friends  on  these  excursions.  The  Falk-. 
landers  have  warm  hearts,  and  down  there  the 
Doric  is  the  famous  passport.  We  were  welcome 
everywhere,  though  Munro  and  I  had  to  do  most 
of  the  talking.  It  was  something  for  the  Islanders 
to  learn  how  the  northern  Scottish  crops  had  fared 
(eighteen  months  ago),  or  '  whatna'  '  catch  of 
herrings  fell  to  the  Loch  Fyne  boats  (last  season 
but  one). 

There  was  no  great  commercial  activity  in  the 


IN    LITTLE    'SCOTLAND'      217 

'  town.'  The  '  Great  Britian '  hulk,  storehouse  for 
the  wool,  was  light  and  high  in  the  water.  The  saw- 
mill hulks  were  idle  for  want  of  lumber  to  be  dressed. 
It  was  the  slack  time,  they  told  us  ;  the  slack  time 
before  the  rush  of  the  wool-shearing.  In  a  week, 
or  a  month  at  the  most,  the  sheep  would  be  ready 
for  the  shears.  Then — ah,  then  ! — Wully  Ramsey 
(who  had  a  head  for  figures)  would  be  brought  for- 
ward, and,  while  his  wind  held  out,  would  hurl 
figures  and  figures  at  us,  all  proving  that  '  Little 
Scotland,'  for  its  size,  was  a  '  ferr  wunner  '  at  wool 
production. 

The  work  of  the  moment  was  mostly  at  breaking 
up  the  wreck  of  the  Glenisla,  a.  fine  four-masted 
barque  that  had  come  in  '  with  the  flames  as  high 
as  th'  foreyard,'  and  had  been  abandoned  as  a 
total  wreck.  Her  burnt-out  shell  lay  beached  in 
the  harbour,  and  the  plates  were  being  drifted  out, 
piece  by  piece,  to  make  sheep  tanks  and  bridge 
work.  It  was  here  that  the  Old  Man — '  at  a  mode- 
rate cost,  mind  ye  ' — picked  up  a  shell-plate  and 
knees  and  boom  irons  to  make  good  our  wants.  A 
spar,  too  (charred,  but  sound),  that  we  tested  by 
all  the  canons  of  carpentry — tasting,  smelling, 
twanging  a  steel  at  one  end  and  listening  for  the 
true,  sound  note  at  the  other.    It  was  ours,  after 


218        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

hard  bargaining,  and  Mason,  the  foreman  wrecker, 
looked  ill-pleased  with  his  price  when  we  rolled 
the  timber  down  to  tide  mark,  launched,  and 
towed  it  away. 

Pleasant  times  !  But  with  the  setting  up  of  the 
new  boom  the  Old  Man  was  anxious  to  get  under 
weigh.  The  to'gallant  mast  could  wait  till  the  fine 
weather  of  the  '  trades.'  We  were  sound  and  sea- 
worthy again  !  Outside  the  winds  were  fair  and 
southerly.  We  had  no  excuse  to  lie  swinging  at 
single  anchor.  Jock  Steel  and  his  mates  got  their 
blessing,  our  '  lawin'  '  was  paid  and  acquitted,  and 
on  a  clear  November  morning  we  shook  out  the 
topsails  and  left  Port  William  to  the  circling  sea- 
birds. 


XX 

UNDER   THE   FLAG 

A  BLACK,  threatening  sky,  with  heavy  banks 
■**-  of  indigo-tinted  clouds  massed  about  the 
sea-line.  A  sickly,  greenish  light  high  up  in  the 
zenith.  Elsewhere  the  gloom  of  warring  elements 
broken  only  by  flashes  of  sheet  lightning,  vivid 
but  noiseless.  The  sea,  rolling  up  from  the  sou'- 
west  in  a  long  glassy  swell,  was  ruffled  here  and 
there  by  the  checks  of  a  fitful  breeze.  It  needed 
not  a  deadly  low  barometer  to  tell  us  of  a  coming 
storm  ;  we  saw  it  in  the  tiers  of  hard-edged  fear- 
some clouds,  breaking  up  and  re-forming,  bank 
upon  bank,  in  endless  figurations.  Some  opposing 
force  was  keeping  the  wind  in  check;  there  was 
conflict  up  there,  for,  though  masses  of  detached 
cloud  were  breaking  away  and  racing  o'er  the  zenith, 
we  held  but  a  fitful  gusty  breeze,  and  our  barque, 
under  low  sail,  was  lurching  uneasily  for  want 
of  a  steadying  wind. 

219 


220        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

It  was  a  morning  of  ill-omen,  and  the  darkling 
sky  but  reflected  the  gloom  of  our  faces ;  our 
thoughts  were  in  keeping  with  the  day,  for  we 
had  lost  a  shipmate,  one  among  us  was  gone,  Old 
Martin  was  dead. 

He  died  sometime  in  the  middle  watch,  no  one 
knew  when.  He  was  awake  when  the  watch  came 
below  at  midnight,  for  Welsh  John  had  given  him 
matches  for  his  pipe  before  turning  in.  That  was 
the  last,  for  when  they  were  called  at  four,  Martin 
was  cold  and  quiet.  There  was  no  trouble  on  his 
face,  no  sign  of  pain  or  suffering.  Belike  the  old 
man  had  put  his  pipe  aside,  and  rinding  no  ship- 
mate awake  to  '  pass  the  word,'  had  gently  claimed 
his  Pilot. 

There  was  no  great  show  of  grief  when  it  was 
known.  Perhaps  a  bit  catch  in  the  voice  when 
speaking  of  it,  an  unusual  gentleness  in  our  man- 
ner towards  one  another,  but  no  resemblance  of 
mourning,  no  shadow  of  woe.  His  was  no  young 
life  untimely  ended,  there  was  no  accident  to  be 
discussed,  no  blame  to  be  apportioned.  It  was 
just  that  old  lamp  had  flickered  out  at  last.  Ours 
was  a  sense  of  loss,  we  had  lost  a  shipmate.  There 
would  be  another  empty  bunk  in  the  fo'cas'le,  a 
hand  less  at  the  halyards,  a  name  passed  over  at 


UNDER   THE    FLAG  221 

muster  ;  we  would  miss  the  voice  of  experience  that 
carried  so  much  weight  in  our  affairs — an  influence 
was  gone. 

At  daybreak  we  stood  around  to  have  a  last 
look  at  the  strong  old  face  we  had  known  so  long. 
The  sailmaker  was  sewing  him  up  in  the  clew  of 
an  old  topsail,  a  sailorly  shroud  that  Martin  would 
have  chosen.  The  office  was  done  gently  and 
soberly,  as  a  shipmate  has  a  right  to  expect.  A 
few  pieces  of  old  chain  were  put  in  to  weight  him 
down,  all  ship-shape  and  sailor-fashion,  and  when 
it  was  done  we  laid  him  out  on  the  main  hatch 
with  the  Flag  he  had  served  cast  over  him. 

'  There  goes  a  good  sailorman,"  said  one  of  the 
crowd ;   H  'e  knowed  'is  work,"  said  another. 

"  A  good  sailorman — 'e  knowed  'is  work !  " 
That  was  Martin's  epitaph — more,  he  would  not 
want. 

His  was  no  long  illness.  A  chill  had  settled  into 
bronchitis.  Martin  had  ever  a  fine  disregard  for 
weatherly  precautions ;  he  had  to  live  up  to  the 
name  of  a  '  hard  case.'  Fits  of  coughing  and  a 
high  temperature  came  on  him,  and  he  was  ordered 
below.  At  first  he  was  taken  aft  to  a  spare  room, 
but  the  unaccustomed  luxury  of  the  cabin  so  told 
on  him  that  when  he  begged  to  be  put  in  the 


222        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

fo'cas'le  again,  the  Old  Man  let  him  go.  There 
he  seemed  to  get  better.  He  had  his  shipmates 
to  talk  to ;  he  was  even  in  a  position  to  rebuke 
the  voice  of  youth  and  inexperience  when  occasion 
required,  though  with  but  a  shadow  of  his  former 
vehemence.  Though  he  knew  it  would  hurt  him, 
he  would  smoke  his  pipe ;  it  seemed  to  afford  him 
a  measure  of  relief.  The  Old  Man  did  what  he 
could  for  him,  and  spent  more  time  in  the  fo'- 
cas'le than  most  masters  would  have  done.  Not 
much  could  be  done,  for  a  ship  is  ill-fitted  for  an 
ailing  man.  At  times  there  were  relapses ;  times 
when  his  breathing  would  become  laboured.  Some- 
times he  became  delirious  and  raved  of  old  ships, 
and  storms,  and  sails,  then  he  would  recover,  and 
even  seemed  to  get  better.  Then  came  the  end. 
The  tough  old  frame  could  no  longer  stand  the 
strain,  and  he  passed  off  quietly  in  the  silence  of 
middle  night. 

He  was  an  old  man,  none  knew  how  old.  The 
kindly  clerks  in  the  shipping  ofhce  had  copied 
from  one  discharge  note  to  the  other  when  'sign- 
ing him  on,'  and  he  stood  at  fifty-eight  on  our 
articles ;  at  sixty,  he  would  never  have  got  a 
'  sight.'  He  talked  of  old  ships  long  since  vanished 
from  the  face  of  the  waters ;   if  he  had  served  on 


UNDER   THE    FLAG  223 

these  he  must  have  been  over  seventy  years. 
Sometimes,  but  only  to  favoured  shipmates,  he 
would  tell  of  his  service  aboard  a  Yankee  cruiser 
when  Fort  Sumter  fell,  but  he  took  greater  pride 
in  having  been  bo'sun  of  the  famous  Sovereign  of 
the  Seas. 

"  Three  hundred  an'  seventy  miles,"  he  would 
say ;  "  that  wos  'er  day's  travellin'  !  That's  wot 
Ah  calls  sailin'  a  ship.  None  o'  j'er  damn  '  clew 
up  an'  clew  down,'  but  give  'er  th'  ruddy  canvas 
an' — let  'er  go,  boys  !  " 

He  was  of  the  old  type,  bred  in  a  hard  sea- 
school.  One  of  his  boasts  was  that  he  had  sailed 
for  five  years  in  packet  ships,  '  an'  never  saw  th' 
pay  table.'  He  would  '  sign  on '  at  Liverpool, 
giving  his  boarding-master  a  month's  advance 
note  for  quittance.  At  New  York  he  would  de- 
sert, and  after  a  bout  ashore  would  sail  for  Liver- 
pool in  a  new  ship.  There  was  a  reason  for  this 
seeming  foolish  way  of  doing. 

"  None  o'  yer  slavin'  at  harbour  jobs  an'  cargo 
work ;  not  fer  me,  me  sons  !  Ah  wos  a  sailorman 
an'  did  only  sailorin'  jobs.  Them  wos  th'  days 
w'en  sailormen  wos  men,  an'  no  ruddy  cargo- 
wrastlin',  coal-diggin'  scallywags,  wot  they  be 
now  !  " 


224        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

A  great  upholder  of  the  rights  of  the  fo'cas'le, 
he  looked  on  the  Mates  as  his  natural  enemies, 
and  though  he  did  his  work,  and  did  it  well,  he 
never  let  pass  an  opportunity  of  trying  a  Mate's 
temper  by  outspoken  criticism  of  the  Officers'  way 
of  handling  ship  or  sail.  Apprentices  he  bore  with, 
though  he  was  always  suspicious  of  a  cabin  in- 
fluence. 

That  was  Martin,  our  gallantly  truculent,  over- 
bearing Old  Martin  ;  and,  as  we  looked  on  the 
motionless  figure  outlined  by  folds  of  the  Flag, 
we  thought  with  regret  of  the  time  we  took  a 
pleasure  in  rousing  him  to  a  burst  of  sailorly  in- 
vective. Whistling  about  the  decks,  or  flying  past 
him  in  the  rigging  with  a  great  shaking  of  the 
shrouds  when  the  '  crowd  '  was  laying  aloft  to 
hand  sail.  "  Come  on,  old  '  has-been  '  !  "  Jones 
once  shouted  to  him  as  he  clambered  over  the 
futtock  shrouds.    Martin  was  furious. 

"  Has-been,"  he  shouted  in  reply.  "  Aye,  meb- 
be  a  '  has-been,'  but  w'en  ye  comes  to  my  time  o' 
life,  young  cock,  ye  can  call  yerself  a  '  never- 
bloody- wos  '  !  " 

Well !  His  watch  was  up,  and  when  the  black, 
ragged  clouds  broke  away  from  the  sou'-west  and 
roused  the  sea  against  us,  we  would  be  one  less 


UNDER  THE    FLAG  225 

to  face  it,  and  he  would  have  rest  till  the  great 
call  of  '  all  hands  ' ;  rest  below  the  heaving  water 
that  had  borne  him  so  long. 


Surely  there  is  nothing  more  solemn  than  a 
burial  at  sea.  Ashore  there  are  familiar  land- 
marks, the  nearness  of  the  haunts  of  men,  the 
neighbourly  headstones,  the  great  company  of  the 
dead,  to  take  from  the  loneliness  of  the  grave. 
Here  was  nothing  but  a  heaving  ship  on  the  im- 
mensity of  mid-ocean,  an  open  gangway,  a  figure 
shrouded  in  folds  of  a  Flag,  and  a  small  knot  of 
bare-headed  men,  bent  and  swaying  to  meet  the 
lurches  of  the  vessel,  grouped  about  the  simple 
bier.  The  wind  had  increased  and  there  was  an 
ominous  harping  among  the  backstays.  The  ship 
was  heaving  unsteadily,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
we  could  keep  a  balance  on  the  wet,  sloping  deck. 
Overhead  the  sky  was  black  with  the  wrack  of 
hurrying  clouds,  and  the  sullen  grey  water  around 
us  was  already  white-topped  by  the  bite  of  freshen- 
ing wind. 

"  I  am  th'  Resurrection  an'  the  Life,  saith 
th'  Loard  ' — Martin,  laid  on  a  slanted  hatch,  was 
ready  for  the  road,  and  we  were  mustered  around 
Q 


226        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  open  gangway.  The  Old  Man  was  reading 
the  service  in  his  homely  Doric,  and  it  lost  noth- 
ing of  beauty  or  dignity  in  the  translation — "  an' 
whosoever  liveth  an'  believe th  in  me  sail  never 
die."  He  paused  and  glanced  anxiously  to  wind- 
ward. There  was  a  deadly  check  in  the  wind,  and 
rain  had  commenced  to  fall  in  large,  heavy  drops. 
"  A  hand  t'  th'  tops'l  halyards,  Mister,"  quietly, 
then  continuing,  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer 
liveth,  an'  that  He  sail  stand  at  th'  latter  day  upon 
th'  airth.  An'  though  ...  yet  in  my  flesh  sail 
I  see  Goad.  .  .  ."  Overhead,  the  sails  were  thrash- 
ing back  and  fore,  for  want  of  the  breeze — still 
fell  the  rain,  lashing  heavily  now  on  us  and  on 
the  shrouded  figure,  face  up,  that  heeded  it  not. 

Hurriedly  the  Old  Man  continued  the  service — 
"  Foreasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  Goad 
of  his  gre — at  merrcy  t'  take  unto  Himself  th' 
so-al  of  oor  de-ar  brother,  here  departed,  we  there- 
fore commit  he's  boady  t'  th'  deep  .  .  .  when 
th'  sea  sail  give  up  her  daid,  an'  th'  life  of  th' 
worl-d  t'  come,  through  oor  Loard,  Jesus  Christ." 

At  a  sign,  the  Second  Mate  tilted  the  hatch,  the 
two  youngest  boys  held  the  Flag,  and  Martin, 
slipping  from  its  folds,  took  the  water  feet  first 
in  a  sullen,  almost  noiseless,  plunge. 


UNDER   THE    FLAG  227 

"  Oor  Father  which  airt  in  heaven"  —  with 
bent  head  the  Old  Man  finished  the  service.  He 
was  plainly  ill  at  ease.  He  felt  that  the  weather 
was  '  making '  on  him,  that  the  absence  from 
the  post  of  command  (the  narrow  space  between 
wheel  and  binnacle)  was  ill-timed.  Still,  his  sense 
of  duty  made  him  read  the  service  to  a  finish, 
and  it  was  with  evident  relief  he  closed  the  book,  say- 
ing, "  Amen  !  Haul  th'  mains'l  up,  Mister,  an' 
stand  by  t'  square  mainyards !  .  .  .  Keep  th' 
watch  on  deck ;  it's  '  all  hands  ' — thon,"  pointing 
to  the  black  murk  spreading  swiftly  over  the 
weather  sky. 

We  dragged  the  wet  and  heavy  mains'l  to  the 
yard  and  stood  by,  waiting  for  the  wind.  Fitful 
gusts  came,  driving  the  rain  in  savage,  searching 
bursts ;  then  would  come  a  deadly  lull,  and  the 
rain  beating  on  us,  straight  from  above — a  piti- 
less downpour.  It  was  bitter  cold,  we  were  drenched 
and  depressed  as  we  stood  shivering  at  the  braces, 
and  we  wished  for  the  wind  to  come,  to  get  it 
over ;  anything  would  be  better  than  this  in- 
action. 

A  gust  came  out  of  the  sou'-west,  and  we  had 
but  squared  the  yards  when  we  heard  the  sound 
of  a  master  wind  on  the  water. 


228        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Shrieking  with  fury  long  withheld,  the  squall 
was  upon  us.  We  felt  the  ship  stagger  to  the 
first  of  the  blast ;  a  furious  plunge  and  she  was 
off — smoking  through  the  white-lashed  sea,  feather- 
driven  before  the  gale.  It  could  not  last ;  no 
fabric  would  stand  to  such  a  race.  "  Lower  away 
tops'l  halyards  !  "  yelled  the  Old  Man,  his  voice 
scarce  audible  in  the  shrilling  of  the  squall.  The 
bo'sun,  at  the  halyards,  had  but  started  the  yard 
when  the  sheet  parted ;  instant,  the  sail  was  in 
ribbons,  thrashing  savagely  adown  the  wind.  It 
was  the  test  for  the  weakest  link,  and  the  squall  had 
found  it,  but  our  spars  were  safe  to  us,  and,  eased 
of  the  press,  we  ran  still  swiftly  on.  We  set  about 
securing  the  gear,  and  in  action  we  gave  little 
thought  to  the  event  that  had  marked  our  day ; 
but  there  was  that  in  the  shriek  of  wind  in  the 
rigging,  in  the  crash  of  sundered  seas  under  the 
bows,  in  the  cries  of  men  at  the  downhauls  and 
the  thundering  of  the  torn  canvas  that  sang  fitting 
Requiem  for  the  passing  of  our  aged  mariner. 


XXI 

DOLDRUMS 

LEE  fore-brace  !  " 
*  Mister  M'Kellar  stepped  from  the  poop  and 
cast  off  the  brace  coils  with  an  air  of  impatience. 
It  wanted  but  half  an  hour  of  '  knocking  off  time  ' 
— and  that  half-hour  would  be  time  enough  for 
his  watch  to  finish  the  scraping  of  the  deck-house 
— but  the  wind  waits  on  no  man,  and  already  the 
weather  clew  of  the  mainsail  was  lifting  lazily  to 
a  shift.  It  was  hard  to  give  up  the  prospect  of 
having  the  house  all  finished  and  ship-shape  before 
the  Mate  came  on  deck  (and  then  trimming  yards 
and  sail  after  the  work  was  done)  ;  but  here  was 
the  wind  working  light  into  the  eastward,  and  the 
sails  nearly  aback,  and  any  minute  might  bring 
the  Old  Man  on  deck  to  inquire,  with  vehemence, 

"  What  the  somebody  was  doing  with  the 

ship  ?  "    There  was  nothing  else  for  it ;   the  house 
would  have  to  stand. 

229 


23o        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  T — 'tt,  lee  -  fore  -  brace,  the  watch  there  !  " 
Buckets  and  scrapers  were  thrown  aside,  the  watch 
mustered  at  the  braces,  and  the  yards  were  swung 
slowly  forward,  the  sails  lifting  to  a  faint  head 
air. 

This  was  the  last  of  the  south-east  trades, 
a  clean-running  breeze  that  had  carried  us  up 
from  20°  S.,  and  brace  and  sheet  blocks,  rudely 
awakened  from  their  three  weeks'  rest,  creaked  a 
long-drawn  protest  to  the  failing  wind ;  ropes, 
dry  with  disuse,  ran  stiffly  over  the  sheaves,  and 
the  cries  of  the  men  at  the  braces  added  the  human 
note  to  a  chorus  of  ship  sounds  that  marked  the 
end  of  steady  sailing  weather. 

"  He — o — ro,  round  'm  in,  me  sons  ;  ho — io — io 
—  lay-  back- an'-  get  -yer  -  muscle  -  up  -  fer  ghostin' 
through  th'  doldrums !  "  Roused  by  the  song 
(broad  hints  and  deep-sea  pleasantries)  of  the 
chanteyman,  the  Old  Man  came  on  deck,  and  paced 
slowly  up  and  down  the  poop,  whistling  softly  for 
wind,  and  glancing  expectantly  around  the  horizon. 
Whistle  as  he  might,  there  was  no  wisp  of  stirring 
cloud,  no  ruffling  of  the  water,  to  meet  his  gaze, 
and  already  the  sea  was  glassing  over,  deserted 
by  the  wind.  Soon  what  airs  there  were  died  away, 
leaving  us  flat  becalmed,  all  signs  of  movement 


DOLDRUMS  231 

vanished  from  the  face  of  the  ocean,  and  we  lay, 
mirrored  sharply  in  the  windless,  silent  sea,  under 
the  broad  glare  of  an  equatorial  sun. 

For  a  space  of  time  we  were  condemned  to  a 
seaman's  purgatory ;  we  had  entered  the  '  d<  1- 
drums,'  that  strip  of  baffling  weather  that  lies 
between  the  trade  winds.  We  would  have  some 
da3's  of  calm  and  heavy  rains,  sudden  squalls 
and  shifting  winds,  and  a  fierce  overhead  sun ; 
and  through  it  all  there  would  be  hard  labour 
for  our  crew  (weak  and  short-handed  as  we  were), 
incessant  hauling  of  the  heavy  yards,  and  trim- 
ming of  sail.  Night  or  day,  every  faint  breath  of 
wind  a-stirring,  every  shadow  on  the  water,  must 
find  our  sail  in  trim  for  but  a  flutter  of  the  canvas 
that  would  move  us  on  ;  any  course  with  north 
in  it  would  serve.  "  Drive  her  or  drift  her,"  by 
hard  work  only  could  we  hope  to  win  into  the 
steady  trade  winds  again,  into  the  gallant  sail- 
ing weather  when  you  touch  neither  brace  nor 
sheet  from  sunset  to  sunrise. 

Overhead  the  sails  hung  straight  from  the  head- 
ropes,  with  not  even  a  flutter  to  send  a  welcome 
draught  to  the  sweltering  deck  below.  Everywhere 
was  a  smell  of  blistering  paint  and  molten  pitch, 
for  the  sun,  all  day  blazing  on  our  iron  sides,  had 


232        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

heated  the  hull  like  a  furnace  wall.  Time  and 
again  we  sluiced  the  decks,  but  still  pitch  oozed 
from  the  gaping  seams  to  blister  our  naked  feet, 
and  the  moisture  dried  from  the  scorched  plank- 
ing almost  as  quickly  as  we  could  draw  the  water. 
We  waited  for  relief  at  sundown,  and  hoped  for  a 
tropical  downpour  to  put  us  to  rights. 

Far  to  the  horizon  the  sea  spread  out  in  a  glassy 
stillness,  broken  only  by  an  occasional  movement 
among  the  fish.  A  widening  ring  would  mark  a 
rise — followed  by  the  quick,  affrighted  flutter  of 
a  shoal  of  flying  fish ;  then  the  dolphin,  darting 
in  eager  pursuit,  the  sun's  rays  striking  on  their 
glistening  sides  at  each  leap  and  flurry.  A  few 
sharp  seconds  of  glorious  action,  then  silence, 
and  the  level  sea  stretching  out  unbroken  to  the 
track  of  the  westing  sun. 

Gasping  for  a  breath  of  cooler  air,  we  watched 
the  sun  go  down,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  wind, 
no  promise  of  movement  in  the  faint,  vapoury 
cirrhus  that  attended  his  setting. 


Ten  days  of  calms  (blazing  sun  or  a  torrent  of 
rain)  and  a  few  faint  airs  in  the  night  time — and 
we  had  gained  but  a  hundred  miles.    'Our  smart 


DOLDRUMS  233 

passage,'  that  we  had  hoped  for  when  winds  were 
fair  and  fresh,  was  out  of  question  ;  but  deep-sea 
philosophy  has  a  counter  for  every  occasion,  and 
when  the  wind  headed  us  or  failed,  someone  among 
us  would  surely  say,  "  Well,  wot's  th'  odds,  any- 
way ?  More  bloomin'  days,  more  bloomin'  dollars, 
ain't  it  ?  "  Small  comfort  this  to  the  Old  Man, 
who  was  now  in  the  vilest  of  tempers,  and  spent 
his  days  in  cursing  the  idle  steersman,  and  his 
nights  in  quarrelling  with  the  Mates  about  the 
trim.  If  the  yards  were  sharp  up,  it  would  be, 
"  What  are  ye  thinkin'  about,  Mister  ?  Get  these 
yards  braced  in,  an'  look  damn  smart  about  it !  " 
If  they  were  squared,  nothing  would  do  but  they 
must  be  braced  forward,  where  the  sails  hung 
straight  down,  motionless,  as  before.  Everything 
and  everybody  was  wrong,  and  the  empty  grog 
bottles  went  '  ftlomp  '  out  of  the  stern  ports  with 
unusual  frequency.  When  we  were  outward  bound, 
the  baffling  winds  that  we  met  off  Cape  Horn 
found  him  calm  enough ;  they  were  to  be  ex- 
pected in  that  quarter,  and  in  the  stir  and  action 
of  working  the  ship  in  high  winds,  he  could  forget 
any  vexation  he  might  have  felt ;  but  this  was 
different,  there  was  the  delay  at  the  Falklands, 
and  here  was  a  further  check  to  the  passage — a 


234        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

hundred  miles  in  ten  days — provisions  running 
short,  grass  a  foot  long  on  the  counter,  and  still 
no  sign  of  wind.  There  w^ikl  be  no  congratulatory 
letter  from  the  owners  a.\  vie  end  of  this  voyage, 
no  kindly  commending  phrase  that  means  so  much 
to  a  shipmaster.  Instead  it  would  be,  "  We  are 
at  a  loss  to  understand  why  you  have  not  made 
a  more  expeditious  passage,  considering  that  the 
Elsinora,  which  sailed,"  etc.,  etc.  It  is  always  a 
fair  wind  in  Bothwell  Street !  It  was  maddening  to 
think  of.  "  Ten  miles  a  day  !  "  Old  Jock  stamped 
up  and  down  the  poop,  snarling  at  all  and  sundry. 
To  the  steersman  it  was,  "  Blast  ye,  what  are  ye 
lookin'  round  for  ?  Keep  yer  eye  on  th'  royals, 
you  !  "  The  Mates  fared  but  little  better.  "  Here, 
Mister,"  he  would  shout ;  "  what's  th'  crowd  idlin' 
about  for  ?  Can't  ye  find  K>o  work  t'  do  ?  D'ye 
want  me  t'  come  and  roust  them  around  ?  It  isn't 
much  use  o'  me  keepin'  a  dog,  an'  havin'  t'  bark 
myself !  " 

It  was  a  trying  time.  If  the  Old  Man  '  roughed  ' 
the  Mates,  the  Mates  '  roughed  '  us,  and  rough  it 
was.  All  hands  were  '  on  the  raw,'  and  matters 
looked  ugly  between  the  men  and  Ofiicers,  and 
who  knows  what  would  have  happened,  had  not 
the  eleventh  day  brought  the  wind. 


DOLDRUMS  235 

It  came  in  the  middle  watch,  a  gentle  air, 
that  lifted  the  canvas  and  set  the  reef  points 
drumming  and  dancing  at  each  welcome  flutter, 
and  all  our  truculence  and  ill-temper  vanished 
with  the  foam  bubbles  that  rose  under  our  moving 
fore-foot. 

The  night  had  fallen  dark  and  windless  as  any, 
and  the  first  watch  held  a  record  for  hauling  yards 
and  changing  sheets.  "  'Ere  ye  are,  boys,"  was 
the  call  at  eight  bells.    "  Out  ye  comes,  an'  swigs 

them  b y  yards  round ;    windmill  tatties,  an' 

th'  Old  Man  'owlin'  like  a  dancin' dervish  on 

th'  lid  !  "  The  Old  Man  had  been  at  the  bottle, 
and  was  more  than  usually  quarrelsome ;  two 
men  were  sent  from  the  wheel  for  daring  to  spit 
over  the  quarter,  and  M'Kellar  was  on  a  verge 
of  tears  at  some  coarse-worded  aspersion  on  his 
seamanship.  The  middle  watch  began  ill.  When 
the  wind  came  we  thought  it  the  usual  fluke  that 
would  last  but  a  minute  or  two,  and  then,  "  mains'l 
up,  an'  square  mainyards,  ye  idle  hounds  !  "  But 
no,  three  bells,  four  bells,  five,  the  wind  still  held, 
the  water  was  ruffling  up  to  windward,  the  ship 
leaning  handsomely  ;  there  was  the  welcome  heave 
of  a  swell  running  under. 

So  the  watch  passed.    There  were  no  more  angry 


236        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

words  from  the  poop.  Instead,  the  Old  Man  paced 
to  and  fro,  rubbing  his  hands,  in  high  good  humour, 
and  calling  the  steersman  "  m'  lad  "  when  he  had 
occasion  to  con  the  vessel.  After  seeing  that 
every  foot  of  canvas  was  drawing,  he  went  below, 
and  the  Second  Mate  took  his  place  on  the  weather 
side,  thought  things  over,  and  concluded  that  Old 
Jock  wasn't  such  a  bad  sort,  after  all.  We  lay 
about  the  decks,  awaiting  further  orders.  None 
came,  and  we  could  talk  of  winds  and  passages, 
or  lie  flat  on  our  backs  staring  up  at  the  gently 
swaying  trucks,  watching  the  soft  clouds  racing 
over  the  zenith  ;  there  would  be  a  spanking  breeze 
by  daylight.  A  bell  was  struck  forward  in  the 
darkness,  and  the  '  look-out '  chanted  a  long 
"  Awl— 's  well !  " 

All  was,  indeed,  well ;    we  had  picked  up  the 
north-east  trades. 


XXII 

ON    SUNDAY 

SUNDAY  is  the  day  when  ships  are  sailed  in 
fine  style.  On  week  days,  when  the  round 
of  work  goes  on,  a  baggy  topsail  or  an  ill-trimmed 
yard  may  stand  till  sundown,  till  the  work  be  done, 
but  Sunday  is  sacred  to  keen  sailing ;  a  day  of 
grace,  when  every  rope  must  be  a-taut-o,  and  the 
lifts  tended,  and  the  Mates  strut  the  weather  poop, 
thinking  at  every  turn  of  suitable  manoeuvres  and 
sail  drill  that  will  keep  the  sailormen  from  weary- 
ing on  this,  their  Day  of  Rest. 

On  a  fine  Sunday  afternoon  we  lay  at  ease 
awaiting  the  Mate's  next  discovery  in  the  field  of 
progress.  She  was  doing  well,  six  knots  or  seven, 
every  stitch  of  sail  set  and  drawing  to  a  steady 
wind.  From  under  the  bows  came  the  pleasing 
thrussh  of  the  broken  water,  from  aloft  the  creak 
of  block  and  cordage  and  the  sound  of  wind  against 

237 


238        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  canvas.  For  over  an  hour  we  had  been 
sweating  at  sheets  and  halyards,  the  customary 
Sunday  afternoon  service,  and  if  the  Florence,  of 
Glasgow,  wasn't  doing  her  best  it  was  no  fault 
of  ours. 

Now  it  was,  "  That'll  do,  the  watch  !  "  and  we 
were  each  following  our  Sunday  beat. 

Spectacled  and  serious,  '  Sails  '  was  spelling  out 
the  advertisements  on  a  back  page  of  an  old  Home 
Notes ;  the  two  Dutchmen  were  following  his  words 
with  attentive  interest.  The  Dagos,  after  the 
manner  of  their  kind,  were  polishing  up  their 
knives,  and  the  '  white  men  '  were  brushing  and 
airing  their  '  longshore  togs,'  in  readiness  for  a  day 
that  the  gallant  breeze  was  bringing  nearer.  A 
scene  of  peaceful  idling. 

"  As  shair's  daith,  he's  gotten  his  e'e  on  that 
fore-tops'l  sheet.  Ah  telt  ye ;  Ah  telt  ye !  " 
Houston  was  looking  aft.  "  Spit  oan  yer  hauns, 
lauds  !  He's  seen  it.  We're  gaun  tae  ha'e  anither 
bit  prayer  for  th'  owners  !  " 

The  Mate  had  come  off  the  poop,  and  was  stand- 
ing amidships  staring  steadily  aloft. 

"  Keep  'oor  eyes  off  that  tops'l  sheet,  I  tell 
'oo,"  said  Welsh  John  angrily.     "  He  can't  see  it 


ON   SUNDAY  239 

unless  he  comes  forra'd;  if  he  sees  '00  lookin', 
it's  forra'd  he'll  be,  soon,  indeed  !  " 

There  were  perhaps  a  couple  of  links  of  slack 
in  the  tops'l  sheet,  a  small  matter,  but  quite  enough 
to  call  for  the  watch  tackle — on  a  Sunday.  The 
crisis  passed  ;  it  was  a  small  matter  on  the  main  that 
had  called  him  down,  and  soon  a  'prentice  boy 
was  mounting  the  rigging  with  ropeyarns  in  his 
hand,  to  tell  the  buntlines  what  he  thought  of  them 
— and  of  the  Mate. 

Bo'sun  Hicks  was  finishing  off  a  pair  of '  shackles,' 
sailor  handles  for  Munro's  sea-chest — a  simple  bit 
of  recreation  for  a  Sunday  afternoon.  They  were 
elaborate  affairs  of  four  stranded  '  turks-heads  ' 
and  double  rose  knots,  and  showed  several  distinct 
varieties  of  '  coach  whipping.'  One  that  was 
finished  was  being  passed  round  an  admiring  circle 
of  shipmates,  and  Hicks,  working  at  the  other, 
was  feigning  a  great  indifference  to  their  criticisms 
of  his  work. 

"  Di — zy,  Di — zy,  gimme  yer  awnswer,  do," 
he  sang  with  feeling,  as  he  twisted  the  pliant 
yarns. 

"  Mind  ye,  'm  not  sayin'  as  them  ain't  fine 
shackles " — Granger  was   ever   the  one   to  strike 


240        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

a  jarring  note — "  As  fine  a  shackles  as  ever  I  see  ; 
but  there  was  a  Dutchman,  wot  I  was  shipmates 
with  in  th'  Ruddy-mantus,  o'  London,  as  could 
turn  'em  out !  Wire  'earts,  'e  made  'em,  an'  stuffin', 
an'  made  up  o'  round  sinnet  an'  dimon'  'itchin'  ! 
Prime  !  W'y  !  Look  a  here  !  If  ye  was  t'  see 
one  ov  'is  shackles  on  th'  hend  ov  a  chest — all 
painted  up  an'  smooth  like — ye  couldn't  'elp  a 
liftin'  ov  it,  jest  t'  try  th'  grip  ;  an'  it  'ud  come 
nat'ral  t'  th'  'and,  jes'  like  a  good  knife.  Them 
wos  shackles  as  'e  made,  an' " 

"  Ho,  yus  !  Shackles,  wos  they  ?  An'  them 
ain't  no  shackles  wot  'm  a-finishin'  of  ?  No  bloomin' 
fear !      Them's    garters    f'r    bally    dancers,    ain't 

they  ?      Or    nose    rings    for    Sullimans,    or , 

or .  'Ere !  "  Hicks  threw  aside  the  un- 
finished shackle  and  advanced  threateningly  on 
his  critic. 

"  'Ere  !  'Oo  th'  'ell  are  ye  gettin'  at,  anywye  ? 
D'ye  siy  as  I  cawn't  make  as  good  a  shackles  as 
any  bloomin'  Dutchman  wot  ever  said  yaw  f'r 
yes  ?  An'  yer  Ruddy-mantus,  o'  London  ?  I 
knows  yer  Ruddy-bloomin-mantus,  o'  London  1 
Never  'ad  a  sailorman  acrost  'er  fo'cas'le  door  ! 
Men  wot  knowed  their  work  wouldn't  sail  in  'er, 
anyhow,  an'  w'en  she  tided  out  at  Gravesen',  all 


ON   SUNDAY  241 

th'  stiffs  out  o'  th'  'ard-up  boardin'-'ouses  wos 
windin'  'er  bloomin'  keeleg  up  !  Ruddymantus  ? 
'Er  wot  'ad  a  bow  like  the  side  o'  'n  'ouse — comin' 
up  th'  Mersey  Channel  a-shovin'  th'  sea  afore  'er, 
an'  makin'  'igh  water  at  Liverpool  two  hours  afore 
th'  Halmanack  !  That's  yer  Ruddy-mantits  !  An' 
wot  th'  'ell  d'you  know  'bout  sailorizin',  anywye  ? 
Yer  never  wos  in  a  proper  ship  till  ye  come  'ere, 
on  a  dead  'un's  discharge,  an'  ye  couldn't  put 
dimon'  'itchin'  on  a  broom  'andle,  if  it  wos  t'  get 
ye  a  pension  !  " 

Here  was  a  break  to  our  peaceful  Sunday  after- 
noon ;  nothing  short  of  a  round  or  two  could  set 
matters  fair  after  such  an  insult  to  a  man's  last 
ship  ! 

Someone  tried  to  pacify  the  indignant  bo'sun. 

"  'Ere,  bo'sun  !  Wot's  about  it  if  'e  did  know 
a  blanky  Dutchman  wot  made  shackles  ?  Them 
o'  yourn's  good  enough.  I  don't  see  nuthin'  th' 
matter  wi'  them  !  " 

"  No — no  !     A-course   ye   don't,    'cos   ye'r   like 

that  b y  Granger  there,   ye  knows  damn  all 

'bout  sailorizin'  anywye  !  Didn't  ye  'ear  'im  say 
as  I  couldn't  make  shackles  ?  " 

A  chorus  of  denials,  a  babel  of  confused  explana- 
tion. 

R 


242        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"A-course  'e  did,"  shouted  the  maker  of  shackles. 
"  'E  sed  as  I  didn't  know  'o\v  t'  work  round  sennit 
an'  dimon'  'itchin',  as  I  wos  never  in  a  proper  ship 
afore,  as  'e  knowed  a  bloomin'  Dutchman  wot  could 
make  better  shackles  nor  me ;  sed  as  'ow  my 
shackles  worn't  fit  f'r  a  grip " 

"  'Ere  !  'Ere  !  !  bo'sun — I  never  sed  nuthin' 
ov  th'  kind ! "  The  unfortunate  Granger  was 
bowing  to  the  blast.  "  Wot  I  sed  wos,  'ow  them 
was  good  shackles ;  as  fine  a  shackles  as  ever  I 
see — an'  I  wos  only  tellin'  my  mates  'ere  'bout 
a  Dutchman  wot  was  in  th'  Ruddymanthus  along 
o'  me  as  could  make  'em  as  smooth  to  the 
'and " 

"  An'  wot's  the  matter  wi'  them  ?  "  Hicks 
picked  up  the  discarded  shackle  and  threw  it  at 
Granger,  striking  him  smartly  on  the  chest.  "  Ain't 
them  smooth  enough  for  yer  lubberly  'an's,  ye 
long-eared  son  of  a " 

"  Fore-tops'l  sheet,  the  watch  there  !  !  " 

The  Mate  had  seen  the  slack  links  and  the 
row  in  progress  at  the  same  moment.  The  order 
came  in  time  ;   strife  was  averted. 

Three  sulky  pulls  at  a  tackle  on  the  sheets,  a 
tightening  of  the  braces,  then :  "  That'll  do,  the 
watch  there  !    Coil  down  and  put  away  the  tackle  1  '* 


ON   SUNDAY  243 

kgain  the  gathering  at  the  fore-hatch.  Hicks 
picked  up  his  work  and  resumed  the  twisting  of 
the  yarns. 

A  great  knocking  out  and  refilling  of  pipes. 

"  'Bout  that  'ere  Dutchman,  Granger  ?  'Im 
wot  ye  wos  shipmates  with." 

Granger  glanced  covertly  at  the  bo'sun.  There 
was  no  sign  of  further  hostilities ;  he  was  working 
the  yarns  with  a  great  show  of  industry,  and  was 
whistling  dolefully  the  while. 

"  Well,  'e  worn't  a  proper  Dutchman,  neither," 
he  began  pleasantly ;  "  'im  bein'  married  on  a 
white  woman  in  Cardiff,  wot  'ad  a  shop  in  Bute 
Road.     See  ?     Th'  Ole  Man  o'  th'  Ruddy manthus, 

'e  wos  a  terror  on  sailorizin' "    Granger  paused. 

Again  a  squint  at  the  bo'sun.  There  was  no  sign, 
save  that  the  whistling  had  ceased,  and  the  lips 
had  taken  a  scornful  turn.  "  'E  wos  a  terror  on 
sailorizin',  an'  w'en  we  left  Sydney  f'r  London,  'e 
said  as  'ow  'e'd  give  two  pun'  fer  th'  best  pair  o' 
shackles  wot  'is  men  could  make.  There  worn't 
many  o'  us  as  wor  'ands  at  shackles,  an'  there  wor 
only  th'  Dutchman  an'  a  white  man  in  it — a  Cock- 
ney 'e  wos,  name  o'  Linnet " 

The  bo'sun  was  staring  steadily  at  the  speaker, 
who  added  hastily,   "  'an  a  damn  good  feller  'e 


244        THE    BRASSROUNDKR 

wos,  too,  one  o'  th'  best  I  ever  wos  shipmates  with  ; 
'e  wos  a  prime  sailorman — there  worn't  many  as 
could  teach  'im  any  thin' " 

Bo'sun  had  resumed  work,  and  was  again  whist- 
ling. 

"  It  lay  a-tween  'im  an'  this  'ere  Dutchman. 
All  the  w'yage  they  wos  at  it.  They  wos  in  diff' rent 
watches,  an'  th'  other  fellers  wos  alius  a-settin' 
'em  up.  It  would  be,  '  'Ere,  Dutchy,  you  min' 
yer  eye.  Linnet,  'e's  got  a  new  turn  o'  threads  jes' 
below  th'  rose  knots  ' ;  or,  '  Look-a-here,  Linnet, 
me  son,  that  Dutchman's  puttin'  in  glossy  beads, 
an'  'e's  waxin'  'is  ends  wi'  stuff  wot  th'  stooard 
giv'  'im.'  The  watches  wos  takin'  sides.  '  Linnet's 
th'  man,'  says  th'  Mate's  watch.  '  Dutchy,  he's  th' 
fine  'and  at  sailorizin','  says  th'  starbowlines. 
Worn't  takin'  no  sides  meself  " — a  side  glance  at 
the  bo'sun — "  me  bein'  'andy  man  along  o'  th' 
carpenter,  an'  workin'  all  day." 

The  bo'sun  put  away  his  unfinished  work,  and, 
lighting  his  pipe — a  sign  of  satisfaction — drew 
nearer  to  the  group. 

"  Off  th'  Western  Islands  they  finished  their 
jobs,"  continued  Granger  (confidently,  now  that 
the  bo'sun  had  lit  a  pipe  and  was  listening  as  a 
shipmate  ought).     "  They  painted   'em,  an'   'ung 


ON   SUNDAY  245 

'em  up  t'  dry.  Fine  they  looked,  dark  green,  an' 
th'  rose  knots  all  w'ite.  Dutchy's  shackles  wos 
werry  narrer ;  worn't  made  f'r  a  sailorman's  'and 
at  all,  but  'e  knowed  wot  e'  wos  a-doin'  of,  for 
th'  Ole  Man  wos  one  o'  them  dandy  blokes  wot 
sails  out  o'  London  ;  'an's  like  a  lidye's  'e  'ad, 
an'  w'en  they  takes  their  shackles  aft,  'e  cottons 
t'  Dutchy's  at  onest.  '  Now,  them's  wot  I  calls 
shackles,  Johnson,  me  man,'  sez  'e.  '  Jest  fits 
me  'and  like  a  glove,'  'e  sez,  'oldin'  ov  'em  up,  an' 
lettin'  'em  fall  back  an'  forrard  acrost  'is  wrist. 
'  Linnet's  is  too  broad,'  'e  sez.  '  Good  work, 
hexellint  work,'  'e  sez,  '  but  too  broad  for  th' 
'ands.'  Linnet,  'e  sed  as  'ow  'e  made  shackles  for 
sailormen's  'ands ;  sed  'e  didn't  'old  wi'  Captains 
'andlin'  their  own  sea-chests,  but  it  worn't  no  use 
— Dutchy  got  th'  two  quid,  an'  th'  stooard  got 
cramp  ov  'is  'ands  hevery  time  'e  took  out  th' 
Ole  Man's  chest  ov  a  mornin'.  An'  th'  Mate  giv' 
Linnet  five  bob  an'  an  ole  pair  o'  sea-boots  f'r 
'is  pair,  an'  cheap  they  wos,  for  Linnet,  'e  wos  a 
man  wot  knowed  'is  work." 

"  A  Mate's  th'  best  judge  ov  a  sailorman's 
work,  anywye,"  said  the  bo'sun  pleasantly. 

"  'Im  ?  'E  wor  a  good  judge,  too,"  said  the 
wily  Granger.     "  'E  said  as  'ow  Linnet's  wos  out- 


246        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

an-out   th'   best   pair.     I   knowed   they  wos,   for 
them  Dutchmen  ain't  so  'andy  at  double  rose  knots 
as  a  white  man  !  " 
"No!    Sure  they  ain't  I 'J 


XXIII 

A   LANDFALL 

T  N  the  dark  of  the  morning  a  dense  fog  had 
■■■  closed  around  us,  shutting  in  our  horizon 
when  we  had  most  need  of  a  clear  outlook.  We 
had  expected  to  sight  the  Lizard  before  dawn  to 
pick  up  a  Falmouth  pilot  at  noon,  to  be  anchored 
in  the  Roads  by  nightfall — we  had  it  all  planned 
out,  even  to  the  man  who  was  to  stand  the  first 
anchor-watch — and  now,  before  the  friendly  gleam 
of  the  Lizard  Lights  had  reached  us,  was  fog — 
damp,  chilling,  dispiriting,  a  pall  of  white,  clammy 
vapour  that  no  cunning  of  seamanship  could  avail 
against. 

Denser  it  grew,  that  deep,  terrifying  wall  that 
shut  us  off,  shipmate  from  shipmate.  Overhead, 
only  the  black  shadow  of  the  lower  sails  loomed 
up  ;  forward,  the  ship  was  shrouded  ghostly,  un- 
real. Trailing  wreaths  of  vapour  passed  before 
and  about  the  side-lamps,  throwing  back  their  glare 

247 


248        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

in  mockery  of  the  useless  rays.  All  sense  of  dis- 
tance was  taken  from  us  :  familiar  deck  fittings 
assumed  huge,  grotesque  proportions ;  the  blurred 
and  shadowy  outlines  of  listening  men  about  the 
decks  seemed  magnified  and  unreal.  Sound,  too, 
was  distorted  by  the  inconstant  sea-fog  ;  a  whisper 
might  carry  far,  a  whole-voiced  hail  be  but  dimly 
heard. 

Lifting  lazily  over  the  long  swell,  under  easy 
canvas,  we  sailed,  unseeing  and  unseen.  Now  and 
on,  the  hand  fog-trumpet  rasped  out  a  signal  of 
our  sailing,  a  faint,  half-stifled  note  to  pit  against 
the  deep  reverberation  of  a  liner's  siren  that  seemed, 
at  every  blast,  to  be  drawing  nearer  and  nearer. 

The  Old  Man  was  on  the  poop,  anxiously  peer- 
ing into  the  void,  though  keenest  eyes  could  serve 
no  purpose.  Bare-headed,  that  he  might  the  better 
hear,  he  stepped  from  rail  to  rail — listening,  sniffing, 
striving,  with  every  other  sense  acute,  to  work 
through  the  fog-banks  that  had  robbed  him  of  his 
sight.  We  were  in  evil  case.  A  dense  fog  in  Channel, 
full  in  the  track  of  shipping — a  weak  wind  for 
working  ship.  Small  wonder  that  every  whisper, 
every  creak  of  block  or  parrel,  caused  him  to 
jump  to  the  compass — a  steering  order  all  but 
spoken. 


A    LANDFALL  249 

"  Where  d'ye  mark  that,  now  ?  "  he  cried,  as 
again  the  liner's  siren  sounded  out. 

"  Where  d'ye  mark  .  .  .  d'ye  mark  .  .  .  mark  ?  " 
The  word  was  passed  forward  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  in  voices  faint  and  muffled. 

"  About  four  points  on  th'  port  bow,  Sir  !  "  The 
cry  sounded  far  and  distant,  like  a  hail  from  a 
passing  ship,  though  the  Mate  was  but  shouting 
from  the  bows. 

"  Aye,  aye  !  Stan'  by  t'  hand  that  foresheet ! 
Keep  the  foghorn  goin'  !  " 

"...  Foresheet  .  .  .  'sheet  .  .  .  th'  fog'orn  .  .  . 
goin'  !  "  The  invisible  choir  on  the  main-deck  re- 
peated the  orders. 

Again  the  deep  bellow  from  the  steamer,  now 
perilously  close — the  futile  rasp  of  our  horn  in 
answer. 

Suddenly  an  alarmed  cry  :  "  O  Chris' !  She's 
into  us  !  .  .  .  The  bell,  you  !  The  bell !  .  .  ."  A 
loud  clanging  of  the  forward  bell,  a  united  shout 
from  our  crew,  patter  of  feet  as  they  run  aft,  the 
Mate  shouting  :  "  Down  helium,  Sir — down  helium, 
f'r  God's  sake  !  " 

"  Hard  down  helm  !  Le'  go  foresheet !  "  an- 
swered to  the  Mate's  cry,  the  Old  Man  himself 
wrenching  desperately  at  the  spokes  of  the  wheel. 


250        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Sharp  ring  of  a  metal  sheave,  hiss  of  a  running 
rope,  clank  and  throb  of  engines,  thrashing  of  sails 
coming  hard  to  the  mast,  shouts  ! 

Out  of  the  mist  a  huge  shadowy  hull  ranges 
alongside,  the  wash  from  her  sheering  cutwater 
hissing  and  spluttering  on  uiir  broadside. 

Three  quick,  furious  blasts  of  a  siren,  unintelli- 
gible shouts  from  the  steamer's  bridge,  a  churning 
of  propellers ;  foam ;  a  waft  of  black  smoke — 
then  silence,  the  white,  clammy  veil  again  about 
us,  and  only  the  muffled  throb  of  the  liner's  re- 
versed engines  and  the  uneasy  lurch  of  our  barque, 
now  all  aback,  to  tell  of  a  tragedy  averted. 

"  Oh  !     The   murderin'   ruffians  !     The   b y 

sojers  !  "  The  crisis  over,  the  Old  Man  was  beside 
himself  with  rage  and  indignation.  "  Full  speed 
through  weather  like  this !  Blast  ye ! "  he 
yelled,  hollowing  his  hands.  "  What — ship — is — 
that  ?  " 

No  answer  came  out  of  the  fog.  The  throb  of 
engines  died  away  in  a  steady  rhythm ;  they 
would  be  on  their  course  again,  '  slowed  down,' 
perhaps,  to  twelve  knots,  now  that  the  nerves  of 
the  officer  of  the  watch  had  been  shaken. 

Slowly  our  barque  was  turned  on  heel,  the  yards 
trimmed  to  her  former  course,  and  we  moved  on, 


A    LANDFALL  251 

piercing  the  clammy  barrier  that  lay  between  us 
and  a  landfall. 

"  Well,  young  fellers  ?  Wha'  d'ye  think  o'  that 
now  ?  "  Bo'sun  was  the  first  of  us  to  regain  com- 
posure. "  Goin'  dead  slow,  worn't  'e  ?  'Bout 
fifteen,  I  sh'd  siy  !  That's  the  wye  wi'  them  mail- 
boat  fellers  :  Monday,  five  'undred  mile  ;  Toosd'y, 
four-ninety-nine ;  We'n'sd'y,  four-ninety-height  'n 
'arf — '  slowed  on  haccount  0'  fog  ' — that's  wot  they 
puts  it  in  'er  bloomin'  log,  blarst  'em  !  " 

"  Silence,  there — main-deck  !  "  The  Old  Man 
was  pacing  across  the  break  of  the  poop,  pausing 
to  listen  for  sound  of  moving  craft. 

Bo'sun  Hicks,  though  silenced,  had  yet  a  further 
lesson  for  us  youngsters,  who  might  one  day  be 
handling  twenty-knot  liners  in  such  a  fog.  In  the 
ghostly  light  of  fog  and  breaking  day  he  performed 
an  uncanny  pantomime,  presenting  a  liner's  officer, 
resplendent  in  collar  and  cuff,  strutting,  mincing, 
on  a  steamer's  bridge.  (Sailormen  walk  fore  and 
aft ;   steamboat  men,  athwart.) 

"  Haw !  "  he  seemed  to  say,  though  never  a  word 
passed  his  lips.  "  Haw  !  Them  wind-jammers — 
ain't  got  no  proper  fog'orns.  Couldn't  'ear  'em 
at  th'  back  o'  a  moskiter-net !  An'  if  we  cawn't 
'ear   'em,   'ow  do  we  know  they're  there,   haw  ! 


252        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

So  we  bumps  'em,  an'  serve  'em  dem  well  right, 
haw  !  " 

It  was  extraordinary  !  Here  was  a  man  who,  a 
few  minutes  before,  might,  with  all  of  us,  have 
been  struggling  for  his  life  ! 

Dawn  broke  and  lightened  the  mist  about  us, 
but  the  pall  hung  thick  as  ever  over  the  water. 
At  times  we  could  hear  the  distant  note  of  a  steamer's 
whistle  ;  once  we  marked  a  sailing  vessel,  by  sound 
of  her  horn,  as  she  worked  slowly  across  our  bows, 
giving  the  three  mournful  wails  of  a  running  ship. 
Now  and  again  we  cast  the  lead,  and  it  was  some- 
thing to  see  the  Channel  bottom — grains  of  sand, 
broken  shell-pebbles — brought  up  on  the  arming. 
Fog  or  no  fog,  we  were,  at  least,  dunting  the  '  blue 
pigeon  '  on  English  ground,  and  we  felt,  as  day 
wore  on  and  the  fog  thinned  and  turned  to  mist 
and  rain,  that  a  landfall  was  not  yet  beyond 
hope. 

A  change  of  weather  was  coming,  a  change 
that  neither  the  Old  Man  nor  the  Mate  liked,  to 
judge  by  their  frequent  visits  to  the  barometers. 
At  noon  the  wind  hauled  into  the  sou'-west  and 
freshened,  white  tops  curled  out  of  the  mist  and 
broke  in  a  splutter  of  foam  under  the  quarter, 
Channel  gulls  came  screaming  and  circling  high 


A    LANDFALL  253 

o'er  our  heads — a  sure  sign  of  windy  weather.  A 
gale  was  in  the  making ;  a  rushing  westerly  gale, 
to  clear  the  Channel  and  blow  the  fog-rack  inland. 

"  I  don't  like  the  looks  o'  this,  Mister."  The 
Old  Man  was  growing  anxious-,  we  had  seen 
nothing,  had  heard  nothing  to  make  us  confident 
of  our  reckoning.  "  That  aneroid's  dropped  a 
tenth  since  I  tapped  it  last,  an'  th'  mercurial's 
like  it  had  no  bottom !  There's  wind  behind 
this,  sure ;  and  if  we  see  naught  before  '  four 
bells,'  I'm  goin'  out  t'  look  for  sea-room.  Channel 
fogs,    an'   sou'-westers,    an'   fifteen-knot   liners   in 

charge  o'  b y  lunatics  !    Gad  !   there's  no  room 

in  th'  English  Channel  now  for  square  sail,  an' 
when  }-e " 

"Sail  O!  On  the  port  bow,  Sir!"  Keen, 
homeward-bound  eyes  had  sighted  a  smudge  on 
the  near  horizon. 

"  Looks  like  a  fisherman,"  said  the  Mate,  screw- 
ing at  his  glasses.    "  He's  standing  out." 

"  Well,  we'll  haul  up  t'  him,  anyway,"  answered 
the  Old  Man.  "  Starboard  a  point — mebbe  he  can 
give  us  the  bearin'  0'  th'  Lizard." 

Bearing  up,  we  were  soon  within  hailing  dis- 
tance. She  was  a  Cardiff  pilot  cutter ;  C.F.  and 
a  number,  painted  black  on  her  mains'l,  showed 


254        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

us  that.  As  we  drew  on  she  hoisted  the  red  and 
white  of  a  pilot  on  station. 

"  The  barque  —  ahoy  !  Where  —  are  —  'oo  — 
bound  ?  "  A  cheering  hail  that  brought  all  hands 
to  the  rails,  to  stare  with  interest  at  the  oilskin- 
clad  figures  of  the  pilot's  crew. 

"  Falmouth — for  orders !  " 

"  Ah  !  ** — a  disappointed  note — "  'oo  are  standin' 
too  far  t'  th'  west'ard,  Capt'in.  I  saw  the  Falmouth 
cutter  under  th'  land,  indeed,  before  the  fog  came 
down.    Nor'-by-east— that'll  fetch  'm  !  " 

"  Thank  'ee  !    How  does  the  Lizard  bear  ?  " 

M  'Bout  nor'-nor'-west,  nine  mile,  I  sh'd  say. 
Stand  in — as — far — as — thirty-five — fathoms — no 
less  !  "    The  pilot's  Channel  voice  carried  far. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  That's  definite,  anyway," 
said  the  Old  Man,  turning  to  wave  a  hand  towards 
the  cutter,  now  fast  merging  into  the  mist  astern. 
"  Nor'-nor'-west,  nine  mile,"  he  said.  '"That  last 
sight  of  ours  was  a  long  way  out.  A  good  job  I 
held  by  th'  lead.  Keep  'er  as  she's  goin',  Mister ; 
I'll  away  down  an'  lay  her  off  on  th'  chart — nor'- 
nor'-west,  nine  mile,"  he  kept  repeating  as  he  went 
below,  fearing  a  momentary  forgetfulness. 

In  streaks  and  patches  the  mist  was  clearing 
before  the  westering  wind.     To  seaward  we  saw 


A    LANDFALL  255 

our  neighbours  of  the  fog  setting  on  their  ways. 
Few  were  standing  out  to  sea,  and  that,  and  the 
sight  of  a  fleet  of  fishermen  running  in  to  their 
ports,  showed  that  no  ordinary  weather  lay  be- 
hind the  fast-driving  fog-wreaths.  North  of  us 
heavy  masses  of  vapour,  banked  by  the  breeze, 
showed  where  the  land  lay,  but  no  land-mark,  no 
feature  of  coast  or  headland,  stood  clear  of  the 
mist  to  guide  us.  Cautiously,  bringing  up  to  cast 
the  lead  at  frequent  intervals,  we  stood  inshore, 
and  darkness,  falling  early,  found  us  a-lee  of  the 
land  with  the  misty  glare  of  the  Lizard  lights 
broad  on  our  beam.  Here  we  '  hove-to  '  to  await 
a  pilot — "  Thirty-five  fathoms,  no  less,"  the  Welsh- 
man had  advised — and  the  frequent  glare  of  our 
blue-light  signals  showed  the  Old  Man's  impatience 
to  be  on  his  way  again  to  Falmouth  and  shelter. 

Eight  we  burnt,  guttering  to  their  sockets,  be- 
fore we  saw  an  answering  flare,  and  held  away  to 
meet  the  pilot.  A  league  or  so  steady  running, 
and  then — to  the  wind  again,  the  lights  of  a  big 
cutter  rising  and  falling  in  the  sea-way,  close  a-lee. 

"  What— ship  ?  "  Not  Stentor  himself  could 
have  bettered  the  speaker's  hail. 

"  The  Florence,  of  Glasgow  :  'Frisco  t'  Channel. 
Have  ye  got  my  orders  ?  " 


256        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

A  moment  of  suspense.  Hull,  it  might  be,  or 
the  Continent :  the  answer  might  set  us  off  to  sea 
again. 

"  No — not  now  !  (We're  right — for  Falmouth.) 
We  had  'm  a  fortnight  agone,  but  they'm  called  in 
since.    A  long  passage,  surely,  Captain  ?  " 

"  Aye  !  A  hundred  an'  thirty- two  days — not 
countin'  three  week  at  th'  Falklan's,  under  repair. 
.  .  .  Collision  with  ice  in  fifty-five,  south  !  .  .  . 
No  proper  trades  either ;  an'  '  doldrums  '  !  .  .  .  A 
long  passage,  Pilot !  " 

"  Well,  well !  You'm  be  goin'  on  t'  Falmouth, 
I  reckon — stan'  by  t'  put  a  line  in  my  boat !  " 
A  dinghy  put  off  from  the  cutter ;  a  frail  cockle- 
shell, lurching  and  diving  in  the  short  Channel  sea, 
and  soon  our  pilot  was  astride  the  rail,  greeting  us, 
as  one  sure  of  a  welcome. 

"  You'm  jest  in  time,  Capten.  It's  goin'  t'  blow, 
I  tell  'ee — (Mainyard  forrard,  Mister  Mate  !) — an' 
a  West-countryman's  allowance,  for  sure  !  "  He 
rubbed  his  sea-scarred  hands  together,  beamed 
jovially,  as  though  a  '  West-countryman's  allow- 
ance '  were  pleasant  fare.  ..."  Th'  glass  started 
fallin'  here  about  two — (Well — the  mainyard  ! — a 
bit  more  o'  th'  lower  tawps'l-brace,  Mister !) — two 
o'clock  yesterday  afternoon — (How's  the  compass, 


A    LANDFALL  257 

Capten  ?  Half  a  point !  Keep  'er  nor '-east  b'  nor', 
when  she  comes  to  it,  m'  lad !) — an'  it's  been  drop- 
pin'  steady  ever  since.  Lot  o'  craft  put  in  for 
shelter  sin' — (Check  in  th'  foreyards  now,  will  'ee  ?) 
— since  th'  marnin',  an'  the  Carrick  Roads  '11  be 
like  West  India  Dock  on  a  wet  Friday.  A  good 
job  the  fog's  lifted.  Gad  !  we  had  it  thick  this 
marnin'.  We  boarded  a  barque  off  th'  Dodman. 
.  .  .  Thought  he  was  south  o'  th'  Lizard,  he  did, 
an'  was  steerin'  nor'-east  t'  make  Falmouth  !  A 
good  job  we  sighted  'im,  or  he'd  a  bin — (Well — th' 
foreyard,  Mister  !) — hard  upon  th'  Bizzie's  Shoal, 
I  reckon." 

The  look-out  reported  a  light  ahead. 

"  St.  Ant'ny's,  Capten,"  said  our  pilot.  "  Will 
'ee  give  'er  th'  main  to'galns'l,  an'  we'll  be  gettin' 
on?" 


XXIV 

FALMOUTH   FOR   ORDERS 

T  T  IGH  dawn  broke  on  a  scene  of  storm,  on  the 
*   ■■■    waters  of  Falmouth  Bay,  white-lashed  and 
curling,  on  great  ragged  storm-clouds  racing  feather- 
edged   over   the   downs  and  wooded  slopes  that 
environ  the  fairest  harbour  of  all  England. 

To  us,  so  long  habited  to  the  lone  outlook  of 
sea  and  sky,  the  scene  held  much  of  interest,  and, 
from  the  first  grey  break  of  morning,  our  eyes 
went  a-roving  over  the  windy  prospect,  seeing 
incident  and  novelty  at  every  turn.  In  the  great 
Bay,  many  ships  lay  anchored,  head  to  wind, 
at  straining  cables.  Laden  ships  with  trim  spars 
and  rigging,  red-rusty  of  hull,  and  lifting  at  every 
scend  to  the  rough  sea,  the  foul  green  underbody 
of  long  voyaging ;  tall  clippers,  clean  and  freshly 
painted  without,  but  showing,  in  disorder  of  gear 
and  rigging,  the  mark  of  the  hastily  equipped 
outward  bound  ;  coasters,  steam  and  sail,  plunging 

258 


FALMOUTH    FOR   ORDERS     259 

and  fretting  at  short  anchor  or  riding  to  the  swell 
in  sheltered  creeks ;  lumbermen,  with  high  deck 
loads  bleached  and  whitened  by  wind  and  salt- 
spume  of  a  winter  passage ;  drifters  and  pilot 
cruisers,  sea  trawlers,  banksmen — a  gathering  of 
many  craft  that  the  great  west  wind  had  turned 
to  seek  a  shelter. 

Riding  with  the  fleet,  we  lay  to  double  anchor. 
Overhead  the  high  wind  whistled  eerily  through 
spar  and  cordage — a  furious  blast  that  now  and 
then  caught  up  a  crest  of  the  broken  harbour 
sea  and  flung  the  icy  spray  among  us.  Frequent 
squalls  came  down — rude  bursts  of  wind  and 
driving  sleet  that  set  the  face  of  the  harbour  white- 
streaked  under  the  lash,  and  shut  out  the  near 
land  in  a  shroud  of  wind-blown  spindrift.  To  sea- 
ward, in  the  clearings,  we  could  see  the  hurtling 
outer  seas,  turned  from  the  sou'-west,  shattering 
in  a  high  column  of  broken  water  at  the  base  of 
St.  Anthony's  firm  headland.  We  were  well  out 
of  that,  with  good  Cornish  land  our  bulwark. 

Ahead  of  us  lay  Falmouth  town,  dim  and  misty 
under  the  stormy  sky.  A  '  sailor-town,'  indeed, 
for  the  grey  stone  houses,  clustered  in  irregular 
masses,  extended  far  along  the  water  front — on 
the  beach,  almost,  as  though  the  townsfolk  held 


26o        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

only  to  business  with  tide  and  tide-load,  and  had 
set  their  houses  at  high-water  mark  for  greater 
convenience.  In  spite  of  the  high  wind  and  rough 
sea,  a  fleet  of  shore  boats  were  setting  out  toward 
the  anchorage.  Needs  a  master  wind,  in  truth, 
to  keep  the  Falmouth  quay-punts  at  their  moorings 
when  homeward-bound  ships  lie  anchored  in  the 
Roads,  whose  lean,  ragged  sailormen  have  money 
to  spend  ! 

Under  close -reefed  rags  of  straining  canvas, 
they  came  at  us,  lurching  heavily  in  the  broken 
seaway,  and  casting  the  spray  mast-high  from 
their  threshing  bows.  To  most  of  them  our  barque 
was  the  sailing  mark.  Shooting  up  in  the  wind's 
eye  with  a  great  rattle  of  blocks  and  slatt  of  wet 
canvas,  they  laid  us  aboard.  There  followed  a 
scene  of  spirited  action.  A  confusion  of  wildly 
swaying  masts  and  jarring  broadsides — shouts  and 
curses,  protest  and  insult ;  fending,  pushing,  sails 
and  rigging  entangled  in  our  out-gear.  Struggling 
to  a  foothold,  where  any  offered  on  our  rusty  top- 
sides,  the  boatmen  clambered  aboard,  and  the 
Captain  was  quickly  surrounded  by  a  clamorous 
crowd,  extending  cards  and  testimonials,  and 
loudly  praying  for  the  high  honour  of  '  sarving ' 
the  homeward  bound. 


FALMOUTH    FOR   ORDERS     261 

"  Capten  !  I  sarved  'ee  when  'ee  wos  mate  o' 
th'  Orion!  Do  'ee  mind  Pengelly — Jan  Pengelly, 
Capten  !  " — "  Boots,  Capten  ?  Damme,  if  them 
a'nt  boots  o'  my  makin',  'ee  're  a-wearin'  nah  !  " 
— "  .  .  .  can  dew  'ee  cheaper  'n  any  man  on  th' 
Strand,  Capten  !  " — "  Trevethick's  th'  man,  Capten ! 
Fort — {th'  'ell  'ee  shoviri  at?) — Forty  year  in 
Falmouth,  Capten  !  " 

Old  Jock  was  not  to  be  hurried  in  his  bestowal 
of  custom.  From  one  he  took  a  proffered  cigar  ; 
from  another  a  box  of  matches.  Lighting  up, 
he  seated  himself  on  the  skylight  settee. 

"  Aye,  aye  !  Man,  but  ye're  the  grand  talkers," 
he  said. 

The  crowd  renewed  their  clamour,  making  bids 
and  offers  one  against  the  other. 

"  Come  down  t'  th'  cabin,  one  of  ye,"  said  the 
Old  Man,  leading  the  way.  A  purposeful  West- 
countryman,  brushing  the  crowd  aside,  followed 
close  at  heel.  The  others  stood  around,  discussing 
the  prospect  of  business. 

"  Scotch  barque,  a'n't  she  ?  "  said  one.  "  Not 
much  to  be  made  o'  them  Scotch  Captens ! 
Eh,  Pengelly,  'ee  knows  ?  Wot  about  th' 
Capten  o'  th'  Newtonend,  wot  'ee  sarved  last 
autumn  ?  " 


262        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

The  man  addressed  looked  angrily  away,  the 
others  laughed  :   a  sore  point ! 

"  Paid  'ee  vvi'  tawps'l  sheets,  didn't  'e  ?  "  said 
another.  "  A  fair  wind,  an'  him  bound  West ! 
Tchutt !  'ee  must  'a  bin  sleepin'  sound  when  th' 
wind  come  away,  Pengelly,  m'  son  !  " 

Pengelly  swore  softly. 

"  Don't  'ee  mind  un,  Jan,  m'  boy  ?  "  added  a 
third.  "  Mebbe  th'  Capten  '11  send  'ee  '  Spanish 
notes '  when  'e  arrives  out — Santa  Rosalia,  worn't 
it?" 

A  bustle  at  the  companionway  put  a  stop  to 
the  chaff,  the  purposeful  man  having  come  on 
deck,  glum  of  countenance. 

"  You'm  struck  a  right  '  hard  case,'  boys,"  he 
said.  "  Twenty  per  cent  ain't  in  it — an'  I'm  off. 
So  long !  " 

One  by  one  the  tradesmen  had  their  interview, 
and  returned  to  deck  to  talk  together,  with  a  half 
laugh,  of  Scotch  '  Jews  '  and  hard  bargains.  Hard 
bargains  being  better  than  no  business,  the  con- 
tracts were  taken  up,  the  crowd  dispersed,  and 
we  were  soon  in  a  position  to  order  our  longshore 
togs  and  table  luxuries — at  prices  that  suggested 
that  someone  was  warming  his  boots  at  our  fire. 

With  Jan  Pengelly  we  bargained  for  foodstuffs. 


FALMOUTH    FOR    ORDERS     263 

It  was  something  of  a  task  to  get  comfortably 
aboard  his  '  bumboat,'  heaving  and  tossing  as  she 
was  in  the  short  sea.  In  the  little  cabin,  securely 
battened  and  tarpaulined  against  the  drenching 
sprays  that  swept  over  the  boat,  he  kept  his  stock 
— a  stock  of  everything  that  a  homeward-bounder 
could  possibly  require ;  but  his  silk  scarves  and 
velvet  slippers,  silver-mounted  pipes  and  sweet 
tobacco  hats,  held  no  attraction  for  us  :  it  was  food 
we  sought — something  to  satisfy  the  hunger  of 
five  months'  voyaging  on  scant  rations — and  at 
that  we  kept  Jan  busy,  handing  out  and  taking  a 
careful  tally  of  our  purchases. 

On  deck  there  was  little  work  for  us  to  do. 
Little  could  be  done,  for,  as  the  day  wore  on  to 
a  stormy  setting,  wind  and  sea  increased,  forcing 
even  the  hardy  boatmen  to  cast  off  and  run  to 
a  sheltered  creek  at  St.  Mawes.  The  icy,  biting 
spray,  scattered  at  every  plunge  of  our  ground- 
fast  barque,  left  no  corner  of  the  deck  unsearched, 
and,  after  a  half-hearted  attempt  to  keep  us  going, 
the  Mate  was  forced  to  order  '  stand  by.'  In  half- 
deck  and  fo'cas'le  we  gathered  round  the  red-hot 
bogies,  and  talked  happily  of  the  voyage's  end,  of 
the  pay-table,  of  resolves  to  stop  there  when  we 
had  come  ashore. 


264        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

Then  came  the  night,  at  anchor-watch.  Tramp- 
ing for  a  brief  hour,  two  together,  sounding,  to 
mark  that  she  did  not  drive  a-lee  ;  listening  to 
the  crash  of  seas,  the  harping  of  the  rigging,  to 
the  thrap,  thrap  of  wind-jarred  halliards ;  strug- 
gling to  the  rigging  at  times,  to  put  alight  an  ill- 
burning  riding  lamp ;  watching  the  town  lights 
glimmer  awhile,  then  vanish  as  quick  succeeding 
squalls  of  snow  enwrapped  the  Bay.  A  brief  spell 
of  duty,  not  ill-passed,  that  made  the  warmth  of 
the  half-deck  and  the  red  glow  of  the  bogie  fire 
more  grateful  to  return  to. 

As  day  broke  the  gale  was  at  its  height.  Out 
of  a  bleak  and  threatening  west  the  wind  blew 
ominously  true — a  whole  gale,  accompanied  by 
a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  There  could  be  no  boat 
communication  with  the  shore  in  such  a  wind, 
but,  as  soon  as  the  light  allowed,  we  engaged  the 
Signal  Station  with  a  string  of  flags,  and  learnt 
that  our  orders  had  not  yet  come  to  hand,  that 
they  would  be  communicated  by  signal,  if  received 
during  the  day. 

After  we  had  re-stowed  sails  and  secured 
such  gear  and  tackle  as  had  blown  adrift  in 
the  night,  '  stand  by '  was  again  the  order, 
reluctantly    given,    and    all    hands    took    advan- 


FALMOUTH    FOR   ORDERS     265 

tage  of  the  rare  circumstance  of  spare  time  and 
a  free  pump  to  set  our  clothes  cleanly  and  in 
order. 

Near  noon  the  Mate  spied  fluttering  wisps  of 
colour  rising  on  the  signal  yard  ashore.  Steadying 
himself  in  a  sheltered  corner,  he  read  the  hoist : 
W.Q.H.L. — our  number. 

"  Aft  here,  you  boys,  an'  hand  flags,"  he  shouted. 
Never  was  order  more  willingly  obeyed  ;  we  wanted 
to  know. 

The  news  went  round  that  our  orders  had 
come.  With  bared  arms,  dripping  of  soapsuds, 
the  hands  came  aft,  uncalled,  and  the  Mate 
was  too  busy  with  telescope  and  signal-book 
to  notice  (and  rebuke)  the  general  muster  of 
expectant  mariners. 

As  our  pennant  was  run  up,  the  hoist  ashore 
was  hauled  down,  to  be  replaced  by  a  new.  The 
Mate  read  out  the  flags,  singly  and  distinct,  and 
turned  to  the  pages  of  the  signal-book. 

"  '  You  —  are  —  ordered  —  to  —  proceed  —  to  ' — 
Answering  pennant  up,  lively  now ;  damme,  I 
can't  rest  you  boys  a  minute,  but  ye  run  to  seed 
an'  sodgerin  '  !  " 

A  moment  of  suspense  ;  to  proceed  to — where  ? 
The  Old  Man  was  on  deck  now,  with  code-book 


266        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

in  hand,  open  at  the  '  geographicals.'  "  '  B — D — 
S— T,'  "  sang  out  the  Mate.  "  B.D.S.T.,"  repeated 
the  Old  Man,  whetting  a  thumb  and  turning  the 
pages  rapidly.  "  B.D.S.T.,  B.D.S— Sligo  !  Sligo, 
where's  that,  anyway  ?  " 

"  North  of  Ireland,  sir,"  said  M'Kellar.  "  Some- 
where east  of  Broadhaven.  I  wass  in  there  once, 
mysel'." 

"  Of  course,  of  course  !  Sligo,  eh  ?  Well,  well ! 
I  never  heard  of  a  square-rigger  discharging  there — 
must  see  about  th'  charts.  Ask  them  to  repeat, 
Mister,  and  make  sure." 

Our  query  brought  the  same  flags  to  the  yard. 
B.D.S.T. — Sligo,  without  a  doubt — followed  by  a 
message,  "  Letters  will  be  sent  off  as  soon  as  weather 
moderates." 

There  was  a  general  sense  of  disappointment 
when  our  destination  was  known ;  Ireland  had 
never  even  been  suggested  as  a  possible  finish  to 
our  voyage.    Another  injustice  ! 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  the  wind  lessened 
and  hauled  into  the  north.  The  bleak  storm- 
clouds  softened  in  outline,  and  broke  apart  to 
show  us  promise  of  better  weather  in  glimpses  of 
clear  blue  behind.  Quickly,  as  it  had  got  up,  the 
harbour  sea  fell  away.     The  white  curling  crests 


FALMOUTH    FOR    ORDERS     267 

no  longer  uprose,  to  be  caught  up  and  scattered 
afar  in  blinding  spindrift.  Wind,  their  fickle  master, 
had  proved  them  false,  and  now  sought,  in  blowing 
from  a  new  airt,  to  quell  the  tumult  he  had  bidden 
rise. 

With  a  prospect  of  letters — of  word  from  home — 
we  kept  an  eager  look-out  for  shore-craft  putting 
out,  and  when  our  messenger  arrived  after  a  long 
beat,  the  boat  warp  was  curled  into  his  hand  and 
the  side  ladder  rattled  to  his  feet  before  he  had 
time  to  hail  the  deck.  With  him  came  a  coasting 
pilot  seeking  employ,  a  voluble  Welshman,  who 
did  not  leave  us  a  minute  in  ignorance  of  the  fact 
that  "  he  knew  th'  coast,  indeed,  ass  well  ass  he 
knew  Car — narvon  !  " 

Then  to  our  letters.  How  we  read  and  re-read, 
and  turned  them  back  and  forward,  scanning  even 
the  post-mark  for  further  news  ! 


Early  astir,  we  had  the  lee  anchor  at  the  bows 
before  dawn  broke.  A  bright,  clear  frosty  morn- 
ing, a  cloudless  sky  of  deepest  blue,  the  land  around 
wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  snow — a  scene  of  tranquillity 
in  sea  and  sky,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  bitter 
weather  of  the  day  before.     At  the  anchorage  all 


268        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

was  haste  and  stirring  action.  A  gentle  breeze 
from  the  north  was  blowing — a  '  soldier's  '  wind 
that  set  fair  to  east  and  west,  and  the  wind-bound 
ships  were  hurrying  to  get  their  anchors  and  be 
off,  to  make  the  most  of  it.  A  swift  pilot  cutter, 
sailing  tack  and  tack  through  the  anchorage,  was 
serving  pilots  on  the  outward  bound,  and  as  each 
was  boarded  in  turn,  the  merry  clank-clank  of  wind- 
lass pawls  broke  out,  and  the  chorus  of  an  anchor 
chantey  woke  the  echoes  of  the  Bay.  Quay  punts 
passed  to  and  fro  from  ship  to  shore,  lurching, 
deep-laden  with  stores,  or  sailing  light  to  reap 
the  harvest  that  the  west  wind  had  blown  them. 
Among  them  came  Jan  Pengelly  (anxious  that 
payment  '  by  tops'l  sheets  '  did  not  again  occur 
with  him),  and  the  Welsh  coasting  pilot  who  was 
to  sail  with  us. 

The  weather  anchor  was  strong  bedded  and 
loth  to  come  home,  and  it  was  as  the  last  of  the 
fleet  that  we  hoisted  our  number  and  ran  out 
between  Pendennis  and  the  Head.  The  Old  Man 
was  in  high  good  humour  that  he  had  no  towing 
bills  to  settle,  and  walked  the  poop,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  whistling  a  doleful  encouragement  to 
the  chill  north  wind. 

Safely  past  the  dread  Manacles,  the  Falmouth 


FALMOUTH    FOR   ORDERS     269 

pilot  left  us.  We  crowded  sail  on  her,  steering 
free,  and  dark  found  us  in  open  channel,  leaning 
to  a  steady  breeze,  and  the  Lizard  lights  dipping 
in  the  wake  astern. 


XXV 

»T  WIND'ARD!" 

I  7*  OR  over  a  week  of  strong  westerly  gales  we 
*  had  kept  the  open  sea,  steering  to  the  north 
as  best  the  wind  allowed.  A  lull  had  come — a 
break  in  the  furious  succession,  though  still  the  sea 
ran  high — and  the  Old  Man,  in  part  satisfied  that 
he  had  made  his  northing,  put  the  helm  up  and 
squared  away  for  the  land.  In  this  he  was  largely 
prompted  by  the  coasting  pilot  (sick  of  a  long, 
unprofitable  passage  —  on  a  'lump-sum'  basis), 
who  confidently  asked  to  be  shown  but  one  speck 
of  Irish  land,  and,  "  I'll  tell  'oo  the  road  t'  Dub-lin, 
Capt'in  !  " 

Moderately  clear  at  first,  but  thickening  later, 
as  we  closed  the  land,  it  was  not  the  weather 
for  running  in  on  a  dangerous  coast,  ill-lighted 
and  unmarked,  but,  had  we  waited  for  clear  weather, 
we  might  have  marked  time  to  the  westward  until 
the  roses  came ;   the  wind  was  fair,  we  were  over- 

270 


"T   WIND'ARD  !"  271 

long  on  our  voyage ;  sheet  and  brace  and  wind 
in  squared  sail  thrummed  a  homeward  song  for 
us  as  we  came  in  from  the  west. 

At  close  of  a  day  of  keen  sailing,  the  outposts 
of  the  Irish  coast,  bleak,  barren,  inhospitable, 
lay  under  our  lee — a  few  bold  rocks,  around  and 
above  wreathed  in  sea-mist,  and  the  never-dying 
Atlantic  swell  breaking  heavily  at  base. 

"  Iss,  indeed,  Capt'in  !  The  Stags  !  The  Stags 
of  Broad-haven,  I  tell  '00,"  said  the  pilot,  scan- 
ning through  his  glasses  with  an  easy  assurance. 
"  Indeed  to  goodness,  it  iss  the  best  landfall  I  haf 
ever  seen,  Capt'in  !  " 

Though  pleased  with  his  navigation,  the  Old 
Man  kept  his  head.  "  Aye,  aye,"  he  said.  "  The 
Stags,  eh  ?  Well,  we'll  haul  up  t'  th'  wind  anyway 
— t'  make  sure  !  "  He  gave  the  order,  and  went 
below  to  his  charts. 

Rolling  heavily,  broad  to  the  sea  and  swell,  we 
lay  awhile.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  weather 
clearing,  no  lift  in  the  grey  mist  that  hung  dense 
over  the  rugged  coast-line.  On  deck  again,  the 
Old  Man  stared  long  and  earnestly  at  the  rocky 
islets,  seeking  a  further  guidemark.  In  the  waning 
daylight  they  were  fast  losing  shape  and  colour. 
Only  the  breaking  sea,  white  and  sightly,  marked 


272        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

them  bold  in  the  grey  mist-laden  breath  of  the 

Atlantic.     " '  present  themselves,  consisting 

of  four  high  rocky  islets  of  from  two  thirty-three  to 
three  ought-six  feet  in  height,  an'  steep-to,'  "  he 
said,  reading  from  a  book  of  sailing  directions. 
"  Damme !  I  can  only  see  three."  To  the  pilot, 
"  D'ye  know  the  Stags  well,  Mister  ?  Are  ye  sure 
o'  ye're  ground  ?  " 

"Wei,  well  Indeed,  Capt'in "  (Mr.  Williams 
laughed).  "  I  know  the  Stags,  yess  !  Ass  well 
ass  I  know  Car-narvon  !  The  Stags  of  Broad-haven, 
I  tell  'oo.  When  I  wass  master  of  the  Ann  Prit- 
chard,  of  Beaumaris,  it  wass  always  to  the  West 
of  Ireland  we  would  be  goin'.  Summer  and  winter, 
three  years,  I  tell  'oo,  before  I  came  to  pilotin' — 
an'  there  iss  not  many  places  between  the  Hull  and 
Missen  Head  that  I  haf  not  seen  in  daylight  an' 
dark.  It  iss  the  Stags,  indeed  !  East,  south-east 
now,  Capt'in,  an'  a  fine  run  to  Sligo  Bar  !  " 

Still  unassured,  the  Old  Man  turned  his  glasses 
on  the  rocky  group.  "  One — two — three — perhaps 
that  was  the  fourth  just  open  to  the  south'ard  " — 
they  certainly  tallied  with  the  description  in  the 
book — "  high,  steep-to."  A  cast  of  the  lead  brought 
no  decision.  Forty-seven  !  He  might  be  ten  miles 
north  and  south  by  that  and  former  soundings. 


"T   WIND'ARD!"  273 

It  was  rapidly  growing  dark,  the  wind  freshening. 
If  he  did  not  set  course  by  the  rocks — Stags  they 
seemed  to  be — he  would  lose  all  benefit  of  landfall 
— would  spend  another  week  or  more  to  the  west- 
ward, waiting  for  a  rare  slant  on  this  coast  of  mist 
and  foul  weather  !  Already  eighteen  days  from 
Falmouth  !  The  chance  of  running  in  was  tempting  ! 
Hesitating,  uncertain,  he  took  a  step  or  two  up 
and  down  the  poop,  halting  at  turns  to  stare 
anxiously  at  the  rocks,  in  the  wind's  eye,  at  the 
great  Atlantic  combers  welling  up  and  lifting  the 
barque  to  leeward  at  every  rise.  On  the  skylight 
sat  Mr.  Williams,  smiling  and  clucking  in  his  beard 
that  "  he  did  not  know  the  Stags,  indeed  !  " 

"  We  haul  off,  Pilot,"  said  stout  Old  Jock,  coming 
at  a  decision.  "  If  it  had  been  daylight  .  .  .  per- 
haps .  .  .  but  I'm  for  takin'  no  risks.  They  may 
be  th'  Stags,  belike  they  are,  but  I'm  no'  goin' 
oan  in  weather  like  this  !  We'll  stand  out  t'  th' 
norrard — '  mainyards  forrard,  Mister ' — till  daylight 
onyway  !  " 

Sulkily  we  hauled  the  yards  forward  and  trimmed 
sail,  leaving  the  rocks  to  fade  under  curtain  of 
advancing  night,  our  high  hopes  of  making  port 
dismissed.  The  '  navigators  '  among  us  were  loud 
of  their  growling,  as  the  ship  lurched  and  wallowed 


274        THE   BRASSBOUNDER 

in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  the  decks  waist-high 
with  a  wash  of  icy  water — a  change  from  the 
steadiness  and  comfort  of  a  running  ship. 

Night  fell  black  dark.  The  moon  not  risen  to 
set  a  boundary  to  sea  and  sky ;  no  play  of  high 
light  on  the  waste  of  heaving  water ;  naught  but 
the  long  inky  ridges,  rolling  out  of  the  west,  that, 
lifting  giddily  to  crest,  sent  us  reeling  into  the 
windless  trough.  On  the  poop  the  Old  Man  and 
Pilot  tramped  fore  and  aft,  talking  together  of 
landfalls  and  coasting  affairs.  As  they  came  and 
went,  snatches  of  their  talk  were  borne  to  us, 
the  watch  on  deck — sheltering  from  the  weather 
at  the  break.  The  Old  Man's  "Aye,  ayes,"  and 
"  Goad,  man's,"  and  the  voluble  Welshman's 
"  iss,  indeed,  Capt'in,"  and  "  I  tell  'oo's."  The 
Pilot  was  laying  off  a  former  course  of  action. 
"...  Mister  Williams,  he  said,  I  can  see  that 
'oo  knows  th'  coast,  he  said,  an'  ...  I  'oodn't 
go  in  myself,  he  said  ;  but  if  'oo  are  sure " 

"  Brea — kers  a-head  !  " — a  stunning  period  to  his 
tale,  came  in  a  long  shout,  a  scream  almost,  from 
the  look-out ! 

Both  sprang  to  the  lee  rigging,  handing  their 
eyes  to  shield  the  wind  and  spray.  Faint  as  yet 
against  the  sombre  monotone  of  sea  and  sky,  a 


«T   WIND'ARD!"  275 

long  line  of  breaking  water  leapt  to  their  gaze, 
then  vanished,  as  the  staggering  barque  drove  to 
the  trough ;  again — again  ;  there  could  be  no 
doubt.    Breakers  !    On  a  lee  shore  !  ! 

"  Mawdredd  an'l !  0  Christ !  The  Stags,  Capt'in. 
.  .  .  My  God  !  My  God !  "  Wholly  unmanned, 
muttering  in  Welsh  and  English,  Mr.  Williams  ran 
to  the  compass  to  take  bearings. 

Old  Jock  came  out  of  the  rigging.  Then,  in  a 
steady  voice,  more  ominous  than  a  string  of  oaths, 
"  Luff !  Down  helm,  m'  lad,  an'  keep  her  close  !  " 
And  to  the  pilot,  "  Well  ?  What  d'ye  mak'  of  it, 
Mister  ?  " 

"  Stags,  Capt'in  !  Diwedd  i  !  That  I  should  be 
mistake.  .  .  .  The  others  .  .  .  God  knows  !  .  .  . 
If  it  iss  th'  Stags,  Capt'in  .  .  .  the  passage  t'  th' 
suth'ard.  ...  I  know  it  ...  we  can  run  ...  if 
it  iss  th'  Stags,  Capt'in  !  " 

"An'  if  it's  no'  th'  Stags!  M'  Goad!  Hoo 
many  Stags  d'ye  know,  Mister  ?  No  !  No  !  We'll 
keep  th'  sea,  if  she  can  weather  thae  rocks  .  .  . 
an'  if  she  canna  ! !  "  A  mute  gesture — then,  pas- 
sionately, "  T'  hell  wi'  you  an'  yer  b y  Stags  :  I 

back  ma  ship  against  a  worthless  pilot !  All  hands, 
there,  Mister — mains'l  an'  to'galn's'l  oan  her ! 
Up,  ye  hounds  ;  up,  if  ye  look  fur  dry  berryin'  !  " 


276        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

All  hands  !  No  need  for  a  call !  "  Breakers 
ahead " — the  words  that  sent  us  racing  to  the 
yards,  to  out  knife  and  whip  at  the  gaskets  that 
held  our  saving  power  in  leash.  Quickly  done, 
the  great  mainsail  blew  out,  thrashing  furiously 
till  steadied  by  tack  and  sheet.  Then  topgal'n' 
sail,  the  spars  buckling  to  overstrain ;  staysail, 
spanker — never  was  canvas  crowded  on  a  ship  at 
such  a  pace  ;  a  mighty  fear  at  our  hearts  that  only 
frenzied  action  could  allay. 

Shuddering,  she  lay  down  to  it,  the  lee  rail 
entirely  awash,  the  decks  canted  at  a  fearsome 
angle ;  then  righted — a  swift,  vicious  lurch,  and 
her  head  sweeping  wildly  to  windward  till  checked 
by  the  heaving  helmsman.  The  wind  that  we  had 
thought  moderate  when  running  before  it  now 
held  at  half  a  gale.  To  that  she  might  have  stood 
weatherly,  but  the  great  western  swell — spawn  of 
uncounted  gales — was  matched  against  her,  rolling 
up  to  check  the  windward  snatches  and  sending 
her  reeling  to  leeward  in  a  smother  of  foam  and 
broken  water. 

A  gallant  fight !  At  the  weather  gangway  stood 
Old  Jock,  legs  apart  and  sturdy,  talking  to  his 
ship. 

"  Stand,  good  spars,"  he  would  say,  casting  long- 


"T   WIND'ARD!"  277 

ing  eyes  aloft.  Or,  patting  the  taffrail  with  his 
great  sailor  hands,  "  Up  tae  it,  ye  bitch  !  Up  !  ! 
Up  !  !  !  "  as,  raising  her  head,  streaming  in  cascade 
from  a  sail-pressed  plunge,  she  turned  to  meet  the 
next  great  wall  of  water  that  set  against  her.  "  She'll 
stand  it,  Mister,"  to  the  Mate  at  his  side.  "  She'll 
stand  it,  an'  the  head  gear  holds.  If  she  starts 
that !  " — he  turned  his  palms  out — "  If  she  starts 
th'  head  gear,  Mister  !  " 

"  They'll  hold,  Sir  !  .  .  .  good  gear,"  answered 
the  Mate,  hugging  himself  at  thought  of  the  new 
lanyards,  the  stout  Europe  gammon  lashings,  he 
had  rove  off  when  the  boom  was  rigged.  Now  was 
the  time  when  Sanny  Armstrong's  spars  would  be 
put  to  the  test.  The  relic  of  the  ill-fated  Glenisla, 
now  a  shapely  to'gallant  mast,  was  bending  like  a 
whip  !  "  Good  iron,"  he  shouted  as  the  backstays 
twanged  a  high  note  of  utmost  stress. 

Struggling  across  the  heaving  deck,  the  Pilot 
joined  the  group.  Brokenly,  shouting  down  the 
wind,  "  She'll  never  do  it,  Capt'in,  I  tell  '00  !  .  .  . 
An'  th'  tide.  .  .  .  Try  th'  south  passage.  .  .  .  Stags, 
sure  !  .  .  .  See  them  fair  now  !  .  .  .  Th'  south 
passage,  Capt'in.  ...  It  iss  some  years,  indeed, 
but  ...  I  know.  Diwedd  an'l  I  She'll  never 
weather  it,  Capt'in  !  " 


278        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

"  Aye  .  .  .  and  weather  it  .  .  .  an'  the  gear 
holds !  Goad,  man !  Are  ye  sailor  enough  t' 
know  what'll  happen  if  Ah  start  a  brace,  wi'  this 
press  o'  sail  oan  her  ?  T  wind'ard  .  .  .  she  goes. 
Ne'er  failed  me  yet  " — a  mute  caress  of  the  stout 
taffrail,  a  slap  of  his  great  hand.  "  Into  it,  ye 
bitch  !    T  wind'ard  !    T'  wind'ard  !  " 

Staggering,  taking  the  shock  and  onset  of  the 
relentless  seas,  but  ever  turning  the  haughty 
face  of  her  anew  to  seek  the  wind,  she  struggled 
on,  nearing  the  cruel  rocks  and  their  curtain  of 
hurtling  breakers.  Timely,  the  moon  rose,  her- 
self invisible,  but  shedding  a  diffused  light  in 
the  east,  showing  the  high  summits  of  the  rocks, 
upreared  above  the  blinding  spindrift.  A  low  moan- 
ing boom  broke  on  our  strained  ears,  turning  to 
the  hoarse  roar  of  tortured  waters  as  we  drew  on. 

"  How  does  't  bear  noo,  M'Kellar  ?  Is  she 
makin'  oan't  ?  "  shouted  the  Old  Man. 

The  Second  Mate,  at  the  binnacle,  sighted  across 
the  wildly  swinging  compass  card.  "  No'  sure,  Sir. 
.  .  .  Th'  caird  swingin'  .  .  .  think  there's  hauf  a 
p'int.  .  .  .  Hauf  a  p'int,  onyway  1  " 

"  Half  a  point !  "  A  great  comber  upreared 
and  struck  a  deep  resounding  blow — "That  for 
yeer  half  a  point " — as  her  head  swung  wildly  off 


"T   WIND'ARD!"  279 

—off,  till  the  stout  spanker,  the  windward  driver, 
straining  at  the  stern  sheets,  drove  her  anew  to  a 
seaward  course. 

Nearer,  but  a  mile  off,  the  rocks  plain  in  a  shaft 
of  breaking  moonlight. 

"  How  now,  M'Kellar  ?  " 

"  Nae  change,  Sir !  .  .  .  'bout  east,  nor'-east 
.  .  .  deefecult  .  .  .  th'  caird  swingin'.  ..." 

The  Old  Man  left  his  post  and  struggled  to  the 
binnacle.  "  East,  nor'-east  .  .  .  east  o'  that, 
mebbe,"  he  muttered.  Then,  to  '  Dutchy,'  at  the 
weather  helm,  "  Full,  m'  lad  !  Keep  'er  full  an' 
nae  mair  !  Goad,  man  !  Steer  as  ye  never  steered 
.  .  .  th'  wind's  yer  mairk.  .  .  .  Goad !  D'na 
shake  her  !  " 

Grasping  the  binnacle  to  steady  himself  against 
the  wild  lurches  of  the  staggering  hull,  the  Old  Man 
stared  steadily  aloft,  unheeding  the  roar  and  crash 
of  the  breakers,  now  loud  over  all — eyes  only  for 
the  straining  canvas  and  standing  spars  above  him. 

"  She's  drawin'  ahead,  Sir,"  shouted  M'Kellar, 
tense,  excited.    "  East,  b'  nor'  ...  an'  fast !  " 

The  Old  Man  raised  a  warning  hand  to  the 
steersman.  "  Nae  higher  !  Nae  higher  !  Goad, 
man  !    Dinna  let  'r  gripe  !  " 

Dread  suspense  !    Would  she  clear  ?    A  narrow 


28o        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

lane  of  open  water  lay  clear  of  the  bow — broadening 
as  we  sped  on. 

"Nae  higher!  Nae  higher!  Art !  Aff !  Up 
helium,  up  !  "  His  voice  a  scream,  the  Old  Man 
turned  to  bear  a  frantic  heave  on  the  spokes. 

Obedient  to  the  helm  and  the  Mate's  ready 
hand  at  the  driver  sheets,  she  flew  off,  free  of 
the  wind  and  sea — tearing  past  the  towering 
rocks,  a  cable's  length  to  leeward.  Shock  upon 
shock,  the  great  Atlantic  sea  broke  and  shattered 
and  fell  back  from  the  scarred  granite  face  of  the 
outmost  Stag ;  a  seething  maelstrom  of  tortured 
waters,  roaring,  crashing,  shrilling  into  the  deep, 
jagged  fissures — a  shriek  of  Furies  bereft.  And, 
high  above  the  tumult  of  the  waters  and  the  loud, 
glad  cries  of  us,  the  hoarse,  choking  voice  of  the 
man  who  had  backed  his  ship. 

"  Done  it,  ye  bitch  !  " — a  now  trembling  hand 
at  his  old  grey  head.  ,"  Done  it !  Weathered — by 
Goad !  " 


XXVI 

LIKE   A   Mi 

SPRING  in  the  air  of  it,  a  bright,  keen  day, 
and  the  mist  only  strong  enough  to  soften 
the  bold,  rugged  outline  of  Knocknarea,  our  sailing 
mark,  towering  high  and  solitary  above  Sligo  Har- 
bour. The  strong  west  wind  that  we  had  fought 
and  bested  at  the  Stags  turned  friendly,  had  blown 
us  fair  to  our  voyage's  end,  and  now,  under  easy 
canvas,  we  tacked  on  shore  and  off,  waiting  for 
tide  to  bear  up  and  float  our  twenty  feet  in  safety 
across  the  Bar. 

At  Raghly,  our  signal  for  a  local  pilot  was  loyally 
responded  to.  A  ship  of  tonnage  was  clearly  a 
rare  sight  in  these  parts,  for  the  entire  male  popula- 
tion came  off  to  see  us  safely  in — to  make  a  day  of 
it !  Old  pilots  and  young,  fishermen  and  gossoons, 
they  swept  out  from  creek  and  headland  in  their 
swift  Mayo  skiffs,  and  though  only  one  was  Trinity 
licensed  for  our  draft  of  water,  the  rest  remained, 

281 


282        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

to  bear  willing  hands  at  the  braces  on  the  chance 
of  a  job  at  the  cargo  being  given. 

'  Ould  Andy '  was  the  official  pilot — a  hardy 
old  farmer-fisherman,  weazened  by  years  and  the 
weather.  He  had  donned  his  best  in  honour  of 
the  occasion — a  coarse  suit  of  fearnought  serges, 
quaintly  cut,  and  an  ancient  top  hat,  set  at  a 
rakish  angle.  Hasty  rising  showed  in  razor  cuts 
on  his  hard  blue  jowl,  and  his  untied  shoes  made 
clatter  as  he  mounted  the  poop,  waving  a  yellow 
time-stained  license.  An  odd  figure  for  a  master- 
pilot  ;  but  he  made  a  good  impression  on  Old 
Jock  when  he  said,  simply,  "...  but  bedad, 
now,  Cyaptin  !  Sure,  Oim  no  hand  at  thim  big 
yards  ov  yours,  but  Oi  kin  show  ye  where  th'  daape 
watther  is  !  " 

The  ship  steered  to  his  liking,  and  all  in  trim, 
he  walked  the  poop,  showing  a  great  pride  of 
his  importance  as  a  navigator  of  twenty  feet. 
Suddenly — at  no  apparent  call — he  stepped  to 
the  side  where  his  boat  was  towing. 

"  What-t,"  he  yelled.  "  Ach,  hoult  yer  whisht ! 
What-t  are  yez  shoutin'  about  ?  What-t  ?  Ast 
the  Cyaptin  f'r  a  bit  av  'baccy  f'r  th'  byes  in 
th'  boat!  Indade,  an'  Oi  will  natt  ast  th' 
dacent    gintilman    f'r    a    bit    av    'baccy    f'r    th' 


LIKE  A   MAN!  283 

byes  in  th'  boat !  What-t  ?  Ach,  hoult  yer 
whisht,  now  !  " 

Joining  the  Captain  he  resumed  the  thread  of 
his  description  of  Sligo  Port,  apparently  unheeding 
the  Old  Man's  side  order  to  the  steward  that  sent 
a  package  of  hard  tobacco  over  the  rail. 

"...  an'  ye'll  lie  at  Rosses  Point,  Cyaptin, 
till  ye  loighten  up  t'  fourteen  faate.  Thin,  thr'll 
be  watther  f'r  yes  at  th'  Quay,  but  ..."  (Another 
tangent  to  the  lee  rail.)  ..."  Ach  !  What-t's 
th'  matther  wit'  ye  now.  Be  m'  sowl,  it's  heart- 
breakin'  ye  are,  wit'  yer  shoutin'  an'  that-t ! 
What-t  ?  Salt  baafe  an'  a  few  bisskits  !  No  !  Oi 
will  natt !  !  Ast  'im  yersilf  f'r  a  bit  av  salt  baafe 
an'  a  few  bisskits,  bad  scran  t'  ye,  yes  ongrateful 
thaaves !  " 

We  are  homeward  bound ;  the  beef  and  biscuits 
go  down.  After  them,  "  a  tarn  sail — jest  a  rag, 
d'ye  moind,  t'  make  a  jib  f'r  th'  ould  boat " ;  then, 
"  a  pat  av  paint  an'  a  brush  " — it  becomes  quite 
exciting  with  Ould  Andy  abusing  his  boat's  crew 
at  every  prompted  request.  We  are  beginning  to 
wager  on  the  nature  of  the  next,  when  sent  to  the 
stations  for  anchoring.  Ould  Andy,  with  an  in- 
dignant gesture  and  shake  of  his  fists,  turns  away 
to  attend  to  his  more  legitimate  business,   and, 


284        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

at  his  direction,  we  anchor  to  seaward  of  the 
Bar. 

The  wind  that  has  served  us  so  well  has  died 
away  in  faint  airs,  leaving  a  long  glassy  swell  to 
score  the  placid  surface  of  the  Bay  and  set  a  pearly 
fringe  on  the  distant  shore.  The  tide  moves 
steadily  in  flood,  broadening  in  ruffling  eddies  at 
the  shoals  of  the  Bar.  On  a  near  beacon  a  tide 
gauge  shows  the  water,  and  when  sail  is  furled  and 
the  yards  in  harbour  trim  we  have  naught  to  do 
but  reckon  our  wages,  and  watch  the  rising  water 
lapping,  inch  by  inch,  on  the  figured  board.  From 
seaward  there  is  little  to  be  seen  of  the  country- 
side. The  land  about  is  low  to  the  coast,  but  far 
inland  blue,  mist-capped  ranges  stand  bold  and 
rugged  against  the  clear  northern  sky.  Beyond 
the  Bar  the  harbour  lies  bare  of  shipping — only  a 
few  fishing  skiffs  putting  out  under  long  sweeps, 
and  the  channel  buoys  bobbing  and  heaving  on 
the  long  swell.  A  deserted  port  we  are  come  to 
after  our  long  voyage  from  the  West ! 

"  That'll  be  th'  Maid  o'  th'  Moy,  Cyaptin,"  said 
Ould  Andy,  squinting  through  the  glasses  at  smoke- 
wrack  on  the  far  horizon.  "  Hot-fut  from  Ballina, 
t'  tow  ye  in.  An'  Rory  Kilgallen  may  save  his 
cowl,  bedad,  f'r  we'll  naade  two  fut  av  watther 


LIKE  A    MAN!  285 

yet  before  we  get  acrost.  Bedad  " — in  high  glee 
— "  he'll  nat-t  be  after  knowin'  that  it's  twinty 
faate,  no  .Uss,  that  Ould  Andy  is  bringin'  in  this 
day  !  " 

With  a  haste  that  marks  her  skipper's  anxiety 
to  get  a  share  of  the  good  things  going,  the  Maid, 
a  trim  little  paddle  tug,  draws  nigh,  and  soon  a 
high  bargaining  begins  between  Old  Jock  and  the 
tugman,  with  an  eager  audience  to  chorus,  "  D'ye 
hear  that-t,  now !  "  at  each  fiery  period.  Rory 
has  the  whip  hand — and  knows  it.  No  competition, 
and  the  tide  making  inch  by  inch  on  the  beacon 
gauge  ! 

For  a  time  Old  Jock  holds  out  manfully. 
"  Goad,  no  !  I'll  kedge  th'  hooker  up  t'  Sligo  Quay 
before  I  give  ye  that !  "  But  high  water  at  hand 
and  no  sign  of  wind,  he  takes  the  tug  on  at  a  stiff 
figure,  and  we  man  the  windlass,  tramping  the 
well-worn  round  together  for  the  last  time. 

Leave  her  is  the  set  chantey  for  finish  of  a  voyage, 
and  we  roar  a  lusty  chorus  to  Granger,  the  chantey- 
man. 

"  O  !    Leave  'r  John-ny,  leave  'r  like  a  man, 
(An'  leave  'r,  John-ny,  leave  V  /) 
Oh  !    Leave  'r,  John-ny,  leave  'r  when  ye  can, 
(An'  it's  time — for  us — t'  leave  'r  1") 


286        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

A  hard  heave,  and  the  tug  lying  short.  A  Mersey- 
man  would  have  the  weight  off  the  cable  by  this. 

"  O !    Soon  we'll  'ear  'th  Ol'  Man  say, 
(Leave  *t,  John-ny,  leave  'r  /) 
Ye  kin  go  ashore  an'  take  yer  pay, 
(An'  it's  time — for  us — t'  leave  'r  !") 

"  Heave,  byes,"  the  gossoons  bearing  stoutly 
on  the  bars  with  us.  "  Heave,  now !  He's  got 
no  frin's !  " 

"  O !    Th'  times  wos  'ard,  an'  th'  wages  low, 
(Leave  'r,  John-ny,  leave  V  /) 
Th'  w'yage  wos  long,  an'  th'  gales  did  blow, 
(An'  it's  time — for  us — t'  leave  'r  !" 

Check — and  rally  ;  check — a  mad  rush  round — 
the  anchor  dripping  at  the  bows,  and  we  move  on 
across  the  eddies  of  the  Bar  in  wake  of  the  panting 
tug. 

A  short  tow,  for  all  the  bargaining,  and  at  Rosses 
Point  we  bring  up  to  moorings — the  voyage  at  an 
end. 

"  That'll  do,  you  men,"  said  the  Mate,  when  the 
last  warp  was  turned.  "  Pay  off  at  th'  Custom 
House  at  twelve  to-morrow  !  " 

"  That'll  do  !  "  Few  words  and  simple  ;  but 
the  meaning  I    Free  at  last !    No  man's  servant ! 


LIKE  A   MAN!  287 

With  a  hurricane  whoop  the  crew  rush  to  quar- 
ters to  sling  their  bags  for  the  road. 

Then  the  trafficking  with  the  shore,  the  boat- 
men reaping  a  harvest.  "  A  bob  th'  trip,  yer  'anner, 
on  a  day  like  this."  The  doors  of  the  village  inn 
swinging  constantly,  and  the  white-aproned  land- 
lord (mopping  a  heated  brow  at  royal  orders), 
sending  messengers  to  ransack  the  village  cup- 
boards for  a  reserve  of  glasses.  And  when  at 
last  the  boats  are  ready  for  the  long  pull  up  to 
Sligo  town,  and  the  impatient  boatmen  shouting, 
''  Coom  on  now,  byes  !  Before  th'  toide  tarns  ; 
byes,  now  !  "  The  free  men  embark,  and  we,  the 
afterguard  (who  draw  no  pay),  are  left  to  watch 
them  set  off,  and  wish  that  our  day  were  quickly 
come. 

For  a  time  we  hear  their  happy  voices,  and 
answer  cheer  for  cheer,  then  the  dark  comes,  and 
the  last  is  a  steady  clack  of  rowlocks,  and  the  men 
singing  "  Leave  'r,  John-ny  .  .  .  like  a  man  !  " 


Two  days  later,  on  deck  of  the  Glasgow  boat, 
I  gazed  on  my  old  ship  for  the  last  time.  At 
the  narrow  bend  we  steamed  slow,  to  steer  cau- 
tiously past  her.     The  harbour  watch  were  there 


288        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

to  give  me  a  parting  cheer,  and  Old  Jock,  from  the 
poop,  waved  a  cheery  response  to  my  salute.  Past 
her,  we  turned  water  again,  and  sped  on  to  sea. 

It  was  a  day  of  mist  and  low  clouds,  and  a 
weakly  sun  breaking  through  in  long  slanting 
shafts  of  light.  Over  the  Point  a  beam  was  fleet- 
ing, playing  on  the  house-tops,  shimmering  in 
window  glasses,  lighting  on  the  water,  on  the 
tracery  of  spar  and  rigging,  and  showing  golden 
on  the  red-rusty  hull  of  the  old  barque — my  home 
for  so  long  in  fair  weather  and  foul. 

A  turn  of  the  steering  shut  her  from  my  sight, 
and  I  turned  to  go  below. 

"  Fine  ships  !    Fine  ships — t'  look  aat !  " 

The  Mate  of  the  steamer,  relieved  from  duty, 
had  stopped  at  my  side,  sociable.  He  would  be 
a  Skye-man  by  the  talk  of  him.  It  was  good  to 
hear  the  old  speech  again. 

"  Aye  !  she's  a  fine  ship." 

"  Haf  you  been  th'  voyage  in  her  ?  Been  long 
away  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !    Sixteen  months  this  trip  !  " 

"  Saxteen  munss  !  Ma  grasshius  !  Y'll  haf  a 
fine  pey  oot  o'  her  ?  " 

"  Not  a  cent !  Owing,  indeed  ;  but  my  time'll 
be  out  in  a  week,  an  I'll  get  my  indentures." 


LIKE  A   MAN!  289 

"  Oh,  yiss  !  Oh,  yiss  !  A  bressbounder,  eh  !  " 
Then  he  gave  a  half-laugh,  and  muttered  the  old 
formula  about  "  the  man  who  would  go  to  sea  for 
pleasure,  going  to  hell  for  a  pastime  !  " 

"  Whatna  voyage  did  ye  haf,  now  ?  "  he  asked, 
after  filling  a  pipe  with  good  '  golden  bar,'  that 
made  me  empty  the  bowl  of  mine,  noisily. 

"  Oh,  pretty  bad.  Gales  an'  gales.  Hellish 
weather  off  the  Horn,  an'  short-handed,  an'  the 
house  full  o'  lashin'  water — not  a  dry  spot,  fore 
an  aft.  'Gad !  we  had  it  sweet  down  there. 
Freezin',  too,  an'  th'  sails  hard  as  old  Harry.  Ah  ! 
a  fine  voyage,  wi'  rotten  grub  an'  short  commons 
at  that !  " 

"  Man,  man  !  D'ye  tell  me  that,  now !  Ma 
grasshius  !  Ah  wouldna  go  in  them  if  ye  wass  t' 
gif  me  twenty  pounds  a  munss  !  " 

No  ;  I  didn't  suppose  he  would,  looking  at  the 
clean,  well-fed  cut  of  him,  and  thinking  of  the 
lean,  hungry  devils  who  had  sailed  with  me. 

"  Naw  !  Ah  wouldna  go  in  them  if  ye  wass 
t'  gif  me  thirrty  pounss  a  munss  !  Coaffins,  Ah 
caall  them !  Aye,  coaffins,  that  iss  what  they 
are  !  " 

Coffin  !  I  thought  of  a  ship  staggering  hard- 
pressed  to  windward  of  a  ledge  of  cruel  rocks, 
u 


2QO         THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

the  breakers  shrieking  for  a  prey,  and  the  old 
grey-haired  Master  of  her  slapping  the  rail  and 
shouting,  "  Up  fit,  m'  beauty  !  T'  windward,  ye 
bitch  !  " 

"  Aye,  coarhns,"  he  repeated.  "  That  iss  what 
they  are  !  " 

I  had  no  answer — he  was  a  steamboat  man,  and 
would  not  have  understood. 


EPILOGUE 


1910 


T  NTO  a  little-used  dock  space  remote  from 
harbour  traffic  she  is  put  aside — out  of  date 
and  duty,  surging  at  her  rusted  moorings  when 
the  dock  gates  are  swung  apart  and  laden  steam- 
ships pass  out  on  the  road  she  may  no  longer  travel. 
The  days  pass — the  weeks — the  months  ;  the  tide 
ebbs,  and  comes  again  ;  fair  winds  carry  but  trail- 
ing smoke-wrack  to  the  rim  of  a  far  horizon  ;  head 
winds  blow  the  sea  mist  in  on  her — but  she  lies 
unheeding.  Idle,  unkempt,  neglected ;  and  the 
haughty  figurehead  of  her  is  turned  from  the  open 
sea. 

Black  with  the  grime  of  belching  factories,  the 
great  yards,  that  could  yet  spread  broad  sails  to  the 
breeze,  swing  idly  on  untended  braces,  trusses  creak- 
ing a  note  of  protest,  sheet  and  lift  chains  clanking 
dismally  against  the  mast.  Stout  purchase  blocks 
that  once  chirrped  in  chorus  to  a  seaman's  chantey 

,291 


292        THE    BRASSBOUNDER 

stand  stiffened  with  disuse ;  idle  rags  of  flutter- 
ing sailcloth  mar  the  tracery  of  spar  and  cord- 
age ;  in  every  listless  rope,  every  disordered 
ratline,  she  flies  a  signal  of  distress — a  pennant 
of  neglect. 

Her  decks,  encumbered  with  harbour  gear  and 
tackle,  are  given  over  to  the  rude  hands  of  the  long- 
shoreman ;  a  lumber  yard  for  harbour  refuse,  a 
dumping  ground  for  the  ashes  of  the  bustling  dock 
tugs.  On  the  hatch  covers  of  her  empty  holds 
planks  and  stages  are  thrown  aside,  left  as  when 
the  last  of  the  cargo  was  dragged  from  her ;  hoist 
ropes,  frayed  and  chafed  to  feather  edges,  swing 
from  the  yardarms  ;  broken  cargo  slings  lie  rotting 
in  a  mess  of  grain  refuse.  The  work  is  done.  There 
is  not  a  labourer's  pay  in  her ;  the  stevedores  are 
gone  ashore. 

Though  yet  staunch  and  seaworthy,  she  stands 
condemned  by  modern  conditions  :  conditions  that 
call  for  a  haste  she  could  never  show,  for  a  burthen 
that  she  could  never  carry.  But  a  short  time,  and 
her  owners  (grown  weary  of  waiting  a  chance 
charter  at  even  the  shadow  of  a  freight)  may  turn 
their  thumbs  down,  and  the  old  barque  pass  to  her 
doom.  In  happy  case,  she  may  yet  remain  afloat — 
a  sheer  hulk,   drowsing  the  tides  away  in  some 


EPILOGUE  293 

remote  harbour,  coal-hulking  for  her  steam-pressed 
successor. 

And  of  her  crew,  the  men  who  manned  and 
steered  her  ?  Scattered  afar  on  seven  seas,  learning 
a  new  way  of  seafaring  ;  turning  the  grip  that  had 
held  to  a  life  aloft  to  the  heft  of  a  coalman's  shovel, 
the  deft  fingers  that  had  fashioned  a  wondrous  plan 
of  stay  and  shroud  to  the  touch  of  winch  valve  and 
lever.  Only  an  old  man  remains,  a  warden,  in 
keeping  with  the  lowly  state  of  his  once  trim  barque . 
Too  old  (conservative,  may  be)  to  start  sea  life 
anew,  he  has  come  to  shipkeeping — a  not  unpleasant 
way  of  life  for  an  aged  mariner,  so  that  he  can  sit 
on  the  hatch  on  fine  nights,  with  a  neighbourly 
dock  policeman  or  Customs  watcher  and  talk  of 
the  sea  as  only  he  knows  it.  And  when  his  gossip 
has  risen  to  go  the  rounds,  what  links  to  the  chain 
of  memory  may  he  not  forge,  casting  his  old  eyes 
aloft  to  the  gaunt  spars  and  their  burden  of  useless 
sail  ?  Who  knows  what  kindly  ghosts  of  bygone 
shipmates  walk  with  him  in  the  night  watches,  when 
the  dock  lies  silent  and  the  flickering  harbour  lights 
are  shimmering,  reflected  in  a  broad  expanse  ? 

THE  END 


T1TP  TTPPArrc 

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